Logan Ryan Smith Quotes

I think of Jesus coming down from Heaven to shame me and everyone here before he gathers his posse of fellow zombies and orders them to devour us all in every way possible - to skin us alive so Jesus and his pals can wear new skins for their trips back to Heaven or the Tenderloin in San Francisco.

Iron bridges hum and lofty buildings of steel and glass glint in the sun's rays and lean over everything with stretched shadows.

Neon lights, moonlight, flickering streetlamps, and shadow through the bedroom window blanket us in an ever-changing quilt. Pearl wraps her arms around my middle and lays her head on my chest. I drink from the bottle of whiskey, both uncomfortable and comforted at the same time.

She's chain-smoking the whole time and leering at us like lambs being lead to some biblical character with a hard-on.

I have outlived the stillborn. I have outlasted my usefulness. I have become an abysmal ocean sponge, ten millennia old, and just as wise.

I'm beautiful. Like the ass of a jellyfish.

Like my dick at the thought of my wife, I don't want to get up.

Poems. I tell ya, there were some great ones. The world, when it was early in the making and easy for the taking, was all poetry, man.

You worked for Walmart, Nestle, De Beers, or some other corporate monster. You were wealthy but you often bathed me in pennies. Melted pennies. I let you because I thought you were infallible. I drank molten copper because you told me to. I would do anything you asked me to.

The waves of the Pacific slap the sand between my toes and off in the distance the setting sun coaxes a million diamond-fish to pierce the ocean's surface, stand on their tails, and shimmy.

You know that jerk that drives up the shoulder on the freeway, passing perhaps miles of cars stuck patiently in traffic, just knowing someone up there, eventually, will let him in?
It's the same thing!
Someone always accommodates the pushy, petulant jerk!
Someone always lets that guy with the silver Porsche Boxster in and the rest of us, stuck behind the guy letting him in, have to suffer.
It's the same with people all over.
It only takes one sucker. One push-over to mess it up for the rest of us.

I step out of Bourbon Bandits onto the sidewalk of Geary Street and take my place among the zombies and psychopaths. How do I tell the difference? The psychopaths wear suits. The zombies have skin peeling off their faces and reek of rotting teeth and were likely the extras in a movie we were all in but forgot about.