Tim Barrus Blog
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Tim Barrus: We Burn Daylight
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True, I speak of dreaming in the afternoon and reading out on my cabin’s tin-roof, I can stand and see the otters back again. The otters are haunted. The demented truth which cunning time assumes Say This is a cold decree rotten to the snake who lives and dies inside…
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Tim Barrus, My Appalachia
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Imagination flows now, a great constancy and the beggermaid.
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Tim Barrus: The Palm Tree’s Name Was Romeo
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Romeo was witness to a thousand things a day in that chicken-scratch yard it seems to want to escape from Get Me Out of Here. This palm tree is the moon. I am the man in the moon. This dying house is my dying house. This book, my dog.
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Tim Barrus: If Sexuality Were As If
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If by what degree history itself represents, mainly motal armies as they sleep. Even their bones come from wounds. I have made mince meat from a strange and bitter world.
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Tim Barrus, New York Times
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Different personas. Don’t think for one second, you will not be punished. For that. There will be no redemption. I was h-i-m for well over a decade. I can hear his voice. I can touch his grief, his tongue, and none of it involved telling me what to do. It…
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Tim Barrus: Do Not Let Them Break Your Heart
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Our days there were grim. Bedrolls and the Gypsy whose someone is the cups and is after you.
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Tim Barrus: Crows Again
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The best part of that trip was Waffle House.
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Tim Barrus: In the Thick Dust Our Village, the One Convicts Scratched To Salt, and From It Corn Whiskey Trickles Down the Logging Road
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The one thing we know is that the death of light has turned inside out, and the riverbed changed the diversion of sound, sight, and memory. Time itself was another Irish priest slipping beneath a little boat that carried the vaunted authority along in scant excess among the vultures because…
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Tim Barrus, New York Times
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Composedly Trembling
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Tim Barrus: New York Times
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Poverty is the sterility of survival.