Wednesday, May 26, 2010

IN A STATE by Logan Ryan Smith (ebook)

Logan Ryan Smith
Transmission Press Books

I have (temporarily) released my book, IN A STATE, under the Transmission Press imprint as a downloadable ebook available over at Goodreads. This book was written in 2007 and is my second full-length book (I don't consider STUPID BIRDS a full-length book, but, rather, a collection). You can download the book by going to the link above then clicking the button in the right hand sidebar.

I had hoped to publish this book in print myself in 2010, but I'm beginning to see that as a very unlikely thing to happen. Hopefully it'll be in print one day.

IN A STATE will remain available online until then.

Friday, May 21, 2010

The Short Fuze (Con)Verses: The Imp

Untitled from Logan Ryan Smith on Vimeo.


the implied
Imp lied
beneath dry ice
dyed mice
the Imp
played nice
and ate feathers with rice

The corrected version of the above is full of lies, crossed eyes, and all eye byes, lullabies, dodo birds, and more Imp lying to characters in bory stooks. Storks took this to seer I/ us, burnt in a hot mess, and laughed with crushed beak/ ears full of chemically imp-balanced juices. Which is sometimes held between ears-es. Implemented.

Storks suffocate babies in their bags. Don’t deliver the right mess age. Look to the Imp Act. To the Imp posed. The Imp acted as tho the Imp actors were all the stage of a world that could not cur—or, could not get the cur to carry the burden of its badger, or badgering con science, which begged creationists to keep it down. Then care.

God’s a card-carrying member. Cancels television programs. Watches news with big buts. However’s always welcomed. But with the Imp action of painful teeth in yr hind quarters, you get left out of the arcade. Pushed from A to B orders. From there you’ll see. Imp has a way to take. De-brained the dodo birds because the Imp ain’t down with the way they treat Ted Mice. He was a favor ate by the didgeridoo-playing dodo birds the storks blew.

But as we all know the Imp active is an Imp action we cannot all ignore. Each action is in action an action to be noted and dis-splayed with fur vent reactions.

God’s nose blows. God’s nose knows no’s. No.

To imp air is to grow hair in there. And be poison-ed. To imp err is human. In the imp air we learn to fly fish. We ride their scaly backs, smack planes out of the sky with their tales, impinged. Cast wishes like dimes in the well full of stork tears.

Imp air meant we could all get along on the internet and E-quell each to each with romantic aquatic digital speak. Imp air’d meant, of course. Thus, no one gets impaled! On imp ale we get drunk with TV and meet in chat rooms to discuss and play games. But when we pay too much attention to the other the Imp ails and we fore get, toward a future tense, a sense pulled out of the thin air. Like fish to birds with arrows. God’s first acts in dents. Crushing. Lurved. The Imp pet us.

Implied in the lie is a God’s Honest Ruth. She was reunited with Ted Mice. They sang lullabies to dodo birds in cradles robbed by storks. She often rode an impala over the fields of crisp blue Antarctica. Grabbed it by the horns and honked her way out.


The stork’s a muse. The impaler kept everyone drunk on sticks. Tongues hung out to fry.

At end, shun! Achtung, Baby in the Stork’s Bag! Bag it and get on! Baby Lon was only the beginning before she got dropped from the sky! The Imp gets it! It’s implied! And with the Imp alp able we can learn to mount! Touch the sky! Smack the storks in their eye! And in imp annals we’ll all be kept somewhere to de-side where coal ides the march! Imp lists it! Lift those elevators and jump!

To the Imp Ark and on to imparadise among the birds and mice, and Ruth and Ted! We’ll impart with the imp art drawn right on the side of it! Little pictures of lopped off baby heads! We will not suck um to impartiality! We’ll speak perfectly flow-ed-ly! Imp lotion! We’ll ride the Ancient’s river right into God’s bruise near the Imp ass! To the land of no impasse! We’ll impaste the bones of storks and dodo birds and build the biggest boat of all time! We’ll impeach the president and find new land! No time for imp patients! If yr not right yr left behind! We’ve not time left for imperfection! The Imp pure! All our eyes impearled! All our impediments curd! All impeders slain! All imp eaters welcome!

We will find our elves all impeccable! Wait! What imp ends? What looms there in the ark? Why so neck egg? Why so chalked up? Little fig air for Ruth to pick up. Lost frog. Hopped hiccup. Imp ale, so hops up! Spread out. Don’t be so impenetrable. You dodo. No one likes a party fowl. It is imperative. Imp or tune?

The Imp are receivable. Impetuous. The Imp, polite. But the stork doesn’t pick it up, only makes drop-offs, like cliffs for jumping. Where the dodo did and fell off after it found out it was imperial. Couldn’t handle the press, sure. Couldn’t be an imperium. No problemo, dodo. The cuckoo was ready to clock you, anyhow. Such is the state of impermanence in the modal age.

Finding us thru Imp Personals on the internet, we all gathered for Imp Ark. Watched the coupling of the storks. Placed our forks to the left, our lives to the right. Let the cow run away with the moon and the dish diddle the spoon beneath the moon. Re-placed our I’s, dotted with the crossed Mr. T, Imp pounded. Imposter!

But here we are us all. Impoverished. Imp ordered. On impulse. Impersonating whatever catches our eyes. The Imp penetrates. Imp presses. Impotent. The Imp, pervy/ us.