Tim Barrus Blog
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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.
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Tim Barrus: Scratches In This Story Are the Story
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Tim Barrus: The Man Who Would Be a Box
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Everyone I have ever met all around the entire planet lives in a fucking box. Time will take you out. Cups carried bends in the plan. I put his fingers in my mouth and warm spit and I sucked this life on the outside sings like the bike is all…
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Tim Barrus: Secrets Are Illegal
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I live out of one bag. People can barely believe it. I am not telling Other People (Hell) what to do. Frankly, I don’t give a fuck what Other People do, think, sliced thin on the night shift.