Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
James Wisp Oct 2013
to think
that to think is not
what it is to feel.
and to think
that the thought is not
what it is
when it is,
but an afterthought
of the feel felt.
and if the thought of that feel
is not at all real,
then what is that feel?

James Wisp Sep 2013
we laugh
     but it's not funny.
we laugh
     because we don't know
          what else to do.
the tears run
     into my eyes
and your blurred outline
     pulses and dims.
i laugh
     once i cant see
          you at all anymore.
you laugh
     because it's done
          and over.
we laugh
     but it's not funny.
we laugh
     because the feel is gone.
James Wisp Jun 2013
It all started out innocently enough,
Shooting the breeze,
Smoking the stuff.
"Let's get outta here."
"Yeah! Lets take the *******."
"Where we going?"
Don't know.
"How long we gonna be?"
Don't care.
Wherever we go
I guess we'll be there.
So we rolled up the joints,
Rolled the windows down,
Lit that **** up
And got the **** outta town.
James Wisp Mar 2012
I am perfect
in those moments
which wont amount
to anything at all.

When no one
is watching,
Where no one
can hear,
I’ll compose
wonderful wisps
you will never
be near.

I am perfect
in those moments
that always
James Wisp Oct 2011
When you ask me that question.
When your eyes plead
for me to say something.
When you want a little lie
or concession,
just a little splash of cool water
to squelch the flame.

I stare back.
Empty. Black.

I can't lie.
Despite the hurt,
this controlled burn
of low ground foliage
and scrub trees,
will, eventually,
make way for the life
strong enough to last.

I wont let that volatile fuel
build up
until it chokes out
those beautiful sentinels
just beginning to grow.
And even the smallest spark
unleashes a fire
that wont stop
until every branch and beast
crumbles ashy into the breeze.


I take a deep breath.

I got nothing to say.
I'm just gonna fiddle my fingers,
watch you squirm
and let you figure it out
as it quietly burns.

*A little bit of pain never hurt anybody,
if you know what I mean.
James Wisp Sep 2011
The box of fire-starters I had found in the back closet
seemed very simple in their use.
Simply turn the curved side down
and apply a flame.

We really wanted a fire.
Not only were we in need of that comforting presence,
but the spectacular show of  trees and mountains
had disappeared with the sun
and the images of windy lake ripples, although profound,
seemed already years in the past.
We had the night to look forward to,
and our enthusiasm for the stars
would be exercised by our frequent excursions
to **** down some cigarettes out in the parking lot.
So it was decided,
this fire would be our inside entertainment for the evening.

The little black bic seemed a bit inadequate,
but the situation was soon remedied
by the discovery of a larger and quite adequate butane torch.
Now we are in business.
Despite the new firepower
only a small flame caught.

After spending a winter without heat,
in a home that hemorrhaged warmth,
I had become proficient in starting fires
with wet logs and numb fingers,
leaving me with a tendency to add too much fuel.

The little flame was adorable.
it wobbled back and forth on the flat side of the fire starter,
reaching up towards yesterday’s paper
and the cardboard case of Coors from last night.
I felt like a proud parent when it’s wispy tendrils
finally got a hold of the remnants of the pasts dubious reminders.

I’d spent my youth in that one room cabin.
Weekends I would roam the mountains
and dig deep holes in the snow to hide in.
Unfortunately, due to a small oversight,
I had never properly learned quite the trick
for opening up the flue.
I assumed, quite wrongly, that the wee bit of airflow from the fireplace
insinuated proper ventilation for the impending combustion.

A fire alarm
is one of the most panic inducing sounds.
We tried desperately to knock the flue open
praying that the growing fire would have room to escape
and save us from the dismal fate
of burning down my families favorite weekend getaway.

Mere moments after admiring the fragile
and fleeting existence of my little flame that could,
I drenched a towel in the sink
and smothered it out
before any more damage could be done
(which really only consisted of wet ash).

We spent the rest of the night smoking cigarettes,
getting high in the floodlights
and twitching with the panic induced paranoia
the aborted fire left in our chests.

And later, once I had gone back to the real world,
I learned that the flue lever had to move,
not left and right,
but up and down to open and close.
James Wisp Sep 2011
I play guitar.
I just sit there and pluck one string.
Who says a magician can't be an artist?
Next page