Tim Barrus Blog
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Tim Barrus, New York Times
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Push through the air with your palm extended facing a knock-out sand of the witches’ wind. How much air did you misplace. Only the Great Karnac knows, and he’s not talking. Less than zero. It’s coming. It’s here. It will define who we are as a species. Migration is bigger…
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Tim Barrus, New York Times
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It’s all in your head. What you need is LSD. We need more LSD. More LSD. Boom boom dope. I call that hope.
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Tim Barrus: On The Way Home
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Playing along with other languages, what marks these words and separates time from the sealed boxes of etertnity and even that is audited by monsters where we petty men in the depravity of the dust bowl, depravity. Inquisition. Fate. Razzle. Dazzle.
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Tim Barrus: Dirt Bike Town
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We rode trains for fun. You run. You hop in. You hope there are would be no desperation among the desperate. Men in the car you leaped into. There they’d be. In the margins. Like shadows. Red-eyed devils. White men sunk down into themselves. Black men in a corner. Seperate.…
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Tim Barrus, New York Times
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I do not even know what a pronoun is.
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Tim Barrus, New York Times
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I knew they would go after Delta-8. The normals fuck us in the ass, and we are supposed to show appreciation for the fuck. The normals are just one species. They like milk toast. Tea and crumpets. The card game, fish. You could use the word lame, it’s okay. Just…
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Tim Barrus: As Individuals, We Are Not Unique
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Tim Barrus, New York Times
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It’s not working. There has to be a better way. Their building reminds me of a Soviet bomb shelter. The rich take care of the rich and the justices are rich. Ask anyone. It’s not that we know. But we know we know. You’re going to arrest me because I…
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Tim Barrus, The Places Where We Used to Live
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I used to sleep in a grey sleeping bag with cowboys on the flannel inside of the sleeping bag with my pistols and plastic soldiers and one guy had a sword. I still wish I had a sword. The bad kids didn’t live down the dirt road. We were the…
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Tim Barrus, New York Times
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Paper over. Not just cracks here and there. Attic’s, too, and all the sinks that could wish the stench away. The Supreme Court has sprinted over a hundred lines in the sand. The sand is over it. In one fell swoop, the Supreme Court made itself irrelevant. Personally, I do…