Tim Barrus: The Woods of Cleopatra

On Ponies Whatever nature is in its just causes, the winter will arrive. There is no such thing as an alignment that men do not stand still. Next to looking inward at what is interpreted as tragedy, I do not buy it. The last of the cringe and the plot…

Blue Ridge Mountains

The only way up here is you take this path or go home. I have a bunch of signs that said: Radiation Zone. Any of the horses around here will know this path, and they also know that they will be well-fed. I am getting hate mail again. I am…

He Jests at Scars But Never Had One

It took him a long time of agony and fear to say “Good morning,” And yet his eyes flashed just at the same time I was telling him it was nice to see him, and in this social setting he flinched a lot. Then, his eyes kept their slow cosmic…

So How Does It Feel When

Slink Away

Fusion Ignition

Behind the Demon’s  Head We were hiding in the trunk of a car. From Authority. Which usually meant hominids would be – all out cock hard– no, harder, much harder. Cheap Stock and Trade.  Jack was the flashback of New Orleans. Busted for Grand Theft Auto. Auto. He told me…

Everything Is Conflicted

DAYLIGHT

https://daylightbooks.org DAYLIGHT BOOKS I cannt even tell you or explain how photography (it’s probably a stim) has touched its hot breath into my life not unlike a tongue you want that tonge in your mouth because the immediacy of whatever it is that holds humanity together by images – hands…

JC Williams

There Are Some Things You Can do. Or Get Away With. And There Are Some Things You Cannot Do. Like Everything.

Airports are intimidating. I would rather walk.

Tim Barrus: The Blocking of Retro-Imagination

The sky itself was inoculated against the cold. Some hotel chef will cut a swan from the blood ice of the bird itself. Either way, ice was your tongue in me and melts swollen like the light drinks the attic swallows in the abandoned barn where learning how to breathe…

Tim Barrus Art

The primal hordes. Which one of them waits to be revealed. It would definitely not be the child.

Tim Barrus: Your House Sails Away

Tim Barrus: Come Nightfall

Come nightfall. The memory of words burning down forgetfulness at the very end. This is where the mausoleum itself smells of ravages. I have found a tree I can build a treehouse in.

Tim Barrus: It All Depends Upon How Badly You Want It

Held in bitterness by the razor teeth of the cold wind, you could smell the rain and the crows were shimmering  blue.

Tim Barrus: There Be Shadows in The Scratchings on the Rocks

To which is fixed. Midnight on a spit. Slanderous tongues and savages.

Tim Barrus: Torn Jeans

And the quiet and thin air torn not unlike rags are torn from sober certainty under the ribs of death, torn, from curses and demons, torn from the memory of ancient tongues and storied weariness just below what will become (you have seen this) dissolved in forfeit of who should…

Tim Barrus, New York Times

I love this stuff where the act of writing remains a theology. Black Mountain is just a few miles from where I live in these same mountains. This year, the green rolling hills are breathtaking. These guys at Black Rock were the parents and grandparents of the counter culture itself.…

Tim Barrus: Midnight Thrift

Karma’s a trick, now. You probably should not have left me standing alone.

Tim Barrus: On The Way Home

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.  

Tim Barrus, The Places Where We Used to Live

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…

Tim Barrus, Dirt Bike Town

Softer in those rooms of sleep, the demon has arrived to lick you clean.

Tim Barrus, New York Times

Both readers and writers hate this, they will try and pull you into the rope-a-dope of rope-a-dopes. Writing is supposed to be Being Virginia Woolf’s Best Friend Forever. Woolf had to be bipolar. Mania is not your friend.  The New York Times kinda lives in this golden bubble they have…

Tim Barrus: Get Up And Go To Work

Tim Barrus: Work It Out Before I Do

Solve this.