Jeep Sex

Dirt Bike Town and the Ha Ha

Memphis and the Bluez

If I was your boyfriend. I have tried to photograph Memphis for decades. The bluez will slip secretly between your fingers. I am a failure as a writer, a lover of those jaded eyes, and I have failed Memphis as a subject. Failing Memphis is like failing love. It’s the…

Incendiary Comments

Comments are not unlike Sumerian Literature. Figures embedded in clay. Or Egyptian hieroglyphics. In that these things tell the stories of the species.    

Putin Wants a Little Piece

We get up and go to work and we get up and go to work and we get up and go to work. What would Americans do if suddenly, Putin brings up the historical reality that Russians (Fort Ross) ruled California, therefore California was part of Russia, and deals or…

Writers Should Plan Their Escape Now

If I was a journalist who wrote this, I would look for a quiet place where I might hide from the Night of the Long Knives. The Night of the Brown Shirts. The Night of the Executions. The Night of the Long March. The Night of Old Suitcases. The Night…

window shopping

Tim Barrus: New York Times

Is Maureen Dowd Irish.

Tim Barrus: What Is a Slaughterhouse

The inside of a slaughterhouse. Humane. No one knows because no one wants to know. A nail in the head. These companies rammed through laws prohibiting any journalistic investigation, and absolutely no pictures. What are they afraid of. They’re afraid that if people saw what goes on in there –…

Road Trip Swing

I can sit on this swing and I swing (usually with the dog), not too hard. I can sit on this swing and make any number of road trips. The steller moments come after you pee. The leaves are an orchestra of disclosing the miracles, we live like wretches in…

Tim Barrus Cabin Xray

It’s cold up the mountain. This morning, Jump Off was covered in a white erie frost. I can’t spend winters up here because at night, it’s easily below zero. My avascular system (an extreme form of arthritis) kicks in, and I literally cannot move. You have to keep the fireplace…

Hecuba

The Queen of Dirt Bike Town. Hecuba is an albino.

How the Real West Was Really Won

There is no real Wild West. How did all of that work out for you. I thought so.   

Another Writer Has Complained

Another writer who complained. Dear Other Writer. Why is it always another writer. I honestly do not get it. Someone doesn’t like what I write. Someone disagrees with me on any number of things, but it’s usually sex. People get so worked up about it. I had switched all of…

That Autistic Twitch

Morning on the island, anywhere on the island is something you wake up in to the sound of horses. On the streets. There wasn’t a single vehicle anywhere. Taking a cab at night, I felt like Sherlock Holmes. 

Tim Barrus: What is Art

Let me build this one from memory. The car keys are in the dragon’s throat.

Tim Barrus: Pi & I

Pi is always up Just a bit animated. He can be – with extraordinary nuance – critical. “Do you feel that was fair, Tim.” No. Pi has a choice. He can move forward. Or he can plunge us down the rabbit hole. I am so over rabbit holes because they…

Dirt Bike Town is a Road Trip on Steroids

What are the constructs of a culture that lend validity to authoritarian rule. What is memory.  

Trump Is a Serial Rapist

America is impotent. The lower middle class is having their revenge. The more we hate on Trump, the harder they will fuck us in the mouth with him. Not one voter who suck’s Trump’s little mushroom has anything whatsoever in common with the rapist. Not even one. When Trump is…

But Will it Wear a Crown

It will wear a crown and walk naked down Trump Boulevard while everyone stares and vomits. A guillotine will be installed in every city in America. Make American heads great again.

And the Butcher’s Wife Walked About the Town At Night Starkers

Calling all churchen Other Times the Politiks is dawn gen-ghis Sea West seed in the graveyard of his humiliation. Threadbare, if he washes the glasses at the pub he received a free pint before he walked back to his stone cottage in the greenwrought let shrill their tippertoes want him…

Tim Barrus: Overcoat

Overcoats is a Poetry/Art project where I am writing prose and taking photographs and some of that would be exclusively for you. That part of the project buys all rights to original material but one. Film rights. Whole package book, rights, art, original poetry: 10K timotheebarrus@gmail.com I have to slap…

Tim Barrus, New York Times

Writing is a hustle. Not everyone gatekeeps. Walking onto the Ted stage, confident as the sun, smiling. Get thin. Get rich. Get a trophy wife. Trophy kids. Trophy house. Trophy car. Trophy pool. Trophy food (take pictures). Trophy job. Trophy office. Could someone please write my Ted Talk. Hustle Ted.…

Tim Barrus: Trouble at the Lakehouse

And low heartbeats of sleep. I can taste their dreams. Rolls right. Bites the roof. Bewildering. White fogspit spans and stands for any arch embattled. This tame world is Castle Sordid. And I am the wild oddity they point at he’s autistic and you know, low IQ, no one understands…

Tim Barrus: The Predator Among Us

That greater darkness creeps receptive fatigue and that is where the lost are living. Denial is a weary mistress. Mistress takes no prisoners. Denial is impetuous. Americans live in a dreamy sleep even as the night has ended, where is the light. There is no light. We are the comatose.…

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…