Poem

Junk Morals

Poem, Writing

Hair,
Meet the Michigan smokestack weather,
We know you say,
O, I got big hands, see!
Shows me you’ve never had the real
good gumbo
Shows me you’ve been willing to steal Wayne County votes
Little fingers, watch the stove top fire, dear.
Sorry dearest mummy,
You never had to remember that one, did ya?

to be continued…

© 2020 Space Cadet WTC

Take a Chance, This Year Off

Poem, Writing

come back soon 

come sooner than later 

come back soon

take it far 

take it wide

gather your senses

collect them how you please 

come back soon and don’t forget me

here’s a dime for every dollar 

here’s a coin for what you’ve spent 

here’s a bit for you and me 

take it closed

take it opened

collect the silver 

save it when you can 

here’s a little something to get you there 

maybe I can help in the end 

it may be that I can

maybe I can move 

to be a part of something new

the beginning is written and sown

maybe I can help the middle grow

been there before 

been there before 

yet again

been there before

take it long

take it far 

sow up my seams

gather my threads 

to make it back when

Ⓒ 2020 W. Cutlip | SpaceCadet | All Rights Reserved

I.

Poem, Uncategorized, Writing

until the mindless hours of night,

flout cellos strain the tunes

shifty shadows.

stagger, under a coronet moon.


rustle of handmade dresses and voiceless chatter,

of dried glands spoiled in milk, guild

the finger painted echo of her

clutching mother’s sooted pea coat.


I listen to paper dolls toss and turn

in her shoe box below the stairs.

A cradle rocks

in my broken stagger’s shadow,

under her coronet crescent moon.



Space Cadet 2020 All Rights Reserved

IV

Poem, Writing

Something I dreamt Mingus say
Nothing, nothing else
I got Lost but I’m back
With a street dream of that house

in an ashtray heart

A curled 16th note corkscrew
floats there.

Only if we’d known we’d lost the money halfway
broke.
A lesson floats in that ashtray.
In that heart
On that corkscrew note

To Shim

Poem

where brook trout surface

in baritone river rains, 

where fox prey,

and jackals await

dressed in morning’s ballistics

as firing squads take aim.

‘neath The Moon Rabbit, 

cleared by crowds drunk with virtue, 

screaming for Śakra 

in final sighs of autumn’s jade dawn

I send this signal to you,

to share in our memories of saccharin-skin armor, my brave brother,

negotiating peace with toy soldiers,

playing dead from sticks and walnut hand grenades.

Memorial Beach Weekend (part 1)

Poem, Writing

The prez went golfing, the kids went to Daytona to ride waves.
They love each other when the weather ain’t so gray.
I stayed home, runny nose to my toes, bandana over my mouth,
counted the door dash twenty-somethings deliver pizza,
could smell the garlic bread from across the way, uncovered for a breath
like coming up for water, or jousting with a drag off some worldly monument, holding it as a cigar, the Statue of Liberty, or The Moai, one of nine-hundred, and his oversized head, so much for this inhale, what’d gag and crumble almost everyone…