(c) 2023 by Michael L. Utley
(#343)
in these dead woods
only the storm crow
knows my name
…..
(#344)
an entire universe
in the bowl of my old hands
and still I’m alone
…..
(#345)
red-wrought destruction
right-wing nihilism wears
a death’s head grin
…..
(#346)
there’s no need for books
when guns speak louder than words
red-hat terrorism
…..
(#347)
blood on our hands
bullets don’t discriminate
another child gone
…..
(#348)
love and lenity
the earth pleads for sanity
as the bullets fly
(originally posted 11/7/2021)
“Red Hats”
(c) 2021 by Michael L. Utley
“The end came just like the fella predicted,”
The old man said. “They were legion,
Wrapped in flags and carrying crosses,
And they were insane.”
He regarded me with a resigned calmness
Across the flames of the campfire,
Studying me intently as his eyes flickered,
His haggard face ensconced in a fiery
Red-yellow glow. At his feet, a small black dog
Lay curled in a tight ball of oblivious slumber
Beneath frigid late-autumn stars,
Occasionally twitching in some
Alien canine dream. The denuded woods
Surrounding us were silent save for
Sporadic cries that echoed remotely in the dark.
“They caught us unaware,” the old man continued.
“Their lies were slippery and darkly enticing,
And they awoke a feral animal bloodlust
In the gullible low-hanging fruit. It was
Modern-day sorcery, a triggering of
Mass psychosis, a mental blitzkrieg,
A philosophical paradigm shift of
Cult-like proportions.”
He stirred the fire with a stick as he
Gazed into the embers, scrying memories
Of the end of all things. The dog let out a
Muffed whimper and kicked weakly in its sleep.
“You never know a man’s heart until you
Dangle a piece of raw meat in front of him,”
The old man said, still lost in his contemplation
Of the embers. “All it took was the raw meat
Of lies and fear and hate, bow-tied in a
Pretty box of false patriotism. Guns and ammo
Included.”
At this, he looked at me through the fire,
His eyes burning. “And they had all the guns.
And when they ran out of bullets, they
Used their fists. And when they ran out of
Enemies, they fell on each other like a
Pack of rabid hyenas…and their
Mad orange god was pleased…”
To the east, the bilious moon climbed
Above the bony fingers of the trees
As a gust of wind kicked up sparks
In the fire, sending them heavenward
Like a swarm of hellish fireflies.
“After that, it was just mop-up duty
For the shock troops,” the old man said.
“The base had fulfilled its sacred duty
Of wanton slaughter and blasphemous
Self-sacrifice. The plutocrats performed
Their symbolic fellatio on the
Mad orange god, then everyone hunkered
And bunkered down. And this…” he said,
Nodding at the cold dead woods,
At the distant insensate stars, at the bloated moon
Clawing its way up the night sky,
At the howls of the damned echoing
In the darkness, at the utter extinction
Of all hope, “…is what’s left…”
Hello, everyone. I’m pleased to let you know that a series of essays I’ve written about my experience as a deaf guy in a hearing world is being published at Gobblers & Masticadores, and the third installment in the series has gone live today. Sincere thanks to Juan Re Crivello for this opportunity to share my experiences with his readers. Today’s essay is “Coda: Farewell to a Dream ” and you can read it by following this link:
“Coda: Farewell to a Dream” at Gobblers & Masticadores
It’s my hope that sharing my life as a deaf person will raise awareness of this “invisible disability” and the impact it has on those of us with hearing loss, and perhaps enlighten those with normal hearing in order to bridge the gap between us. I hope you enjoy it.
Once again, much gratitude to Juan Re Crivello for his kindness and generosity. It’s truly an honor for me.
Don’t forget to follow and subscribe to Gobblers & Masticadores, where you’ll find some wonderful writing and plenty of food for thought.
(originally posted 10/3/2021)
“The Farm’
© 2021 by Michael L. Utley
Nighthawks scream
With evening’s descent
They know the truth
Black god’s-eyes
See everything
From salmon-hued
Heaven
As wings fold
Bird-bombs dive
Preying on the
Prayerless
Powerless
Oblivious
Strident-throated
Shrieks
A mindless alien-avian
Warning
Turn back
There is no hope here
Across the fallow field
Elk bugle mournfully in
Twilight cacophony
A hundred dim smudges
Herding in
Paranoid precision
Against the dusty dun of
Evening’s solemn soliloquy
Scatter
Coagulate
Statue-still
Amidst dusk ground-mist
Trumpet-cries betray blind fear
A prose of unearthly moans
As pinyon-sage-scented breeze
Lifts this omen skyward
Turn back
There is no hope here
Dead-yellow fox tails
And cheatgrass
Bend
Break
As I pass
A sickly meadow of
Thin-boned weeds
And cloying sage
Crackling underfoot as
Stickers pin-cushion
Socks and shoelaces
Ground beetles
And spiders flee
Stupidly
Languidly
Dissolve into
Cracked earth
Disappear
Each footstep
Dust-choke-inducing
The shrill trill of crickets
Distant
Distracted
Dispassionate
They know, too
Turn back, they sing
There is no hope here
A skeleton crew of
Haggard, stunted trees
Stands sentinel
Against the coming darkness
Pinyons felled by
Insidious Ips beetles
Squat
Naked
Bony
Sap-dried cones
Long dead
Among carpets of
Desiccated yellowed needles and
Sparrow-emptied pine nut shells
Tinder awaiting a wildfire
Fragrant junipers stand
Amidst dead-berry piles in
Shaggy bark-suits
Peeling like scorched dusty
Sun-burnt skin
Swarming with black ants
Pungent piss-scent
Overwhelming as
Paper-bark crawls
In the shadows
The subliminal hiss of an
Errant breeze
Wheezes dark portents
Among barkless boughs
Turn back
There is no hope here
Muffled yips and
Strangled howls
Ride chilly currents from
Far obscure fields
As coyotes practice
Weird secret sorcery
In the gloaming
The cries of the damned
Of pain
Of madness
Of red-eyed tricksters
In shadow-garb
Preparing for midnight hunts
And the tearing of flesh
Yellow grins reeking of
Fear and dead meat
Champ and drool as
Festivities draw near
Their primal chaos-chorus
Announcing to all
Turn back
There is no hope here
In hushed
Sepulchral silence
Muted coos of
Mourning doves
Float softly in
Penitential pleas
Stillness magnifying
Lilting lamentation
Grief too much to bear
Their sorrow-song
An ache that
Never ends
Unmendable
Rends hearts
Cleaves souls
Tears flow
Unknowingly
Purity and
Sadness
Immeasurable loss
A calming balm
Inadequate to heal
All that ails
Ineffectual against
Forces of fear
Reduced to a
Whispered admonition
Turn back
There is no hope here
The broken garden gate
Aslant on rusted hinges
Unleveling the horizon
Of faded, ephemeral corn stalks
And rotting squash-husks
A tangle of ancient weeds
And briar bushes
Encases this bleak place
Age-drained of all
Color and scent
Poisonous soil
Long since emptied of life
Only dead things grow here
Rows of sorrow
Trellises of despair
A forlorn bounty of
Loss and regret
A stilled silence
Proclaiming
Turn back
There is no hope here
The house
A gray thing
Hunched against
The gloom of
Bruise-tinted sky
Like some
Feral beast
Skull-socket eyes
Peer
Blackly
Blindly
Balefully
Through diseased elms
As cement tongue lolls
Cracked and pitted
From front door
To yard gate
Lawn only a distant memory
Weed-choked
Littered with
Shattered window glass
And random roof shingles
Silence
Stillness
It’s been years
Since I was here
Since I fled
Since that day
The monster was real then
The fear was real
And it’s been with me
All the while
Concrete dust crunches
Bone-like underfoot
I reach the front door
Push through a
Latticework of spider-silk
Filled with memories
So many memories
Dust and the scent of
Ancient mildew
Rotting wood
Hang in mote-filled air
It’s smaller now
Empty
Hollow
Ceiling plaster
Coats rotting carpet
In a patina of snow
Water-stained drywall
Bent and bulging
My room is there
Dark and cobwebby
Kitchen
Sisters’ bedroom
Parents’ room
Bathroom
Everything accounted for
Except the monster
There is no hope here
Dead monsters leave
Memory echoes
Down the years
A legacy of pain and fear
And while there is
No monster here
Neither is there reason
For rejoicing
This place is dead
Just like my father
The monster
Nothing will ever be
As it was
So much lost
Still more buried in
Dark locked crates
In my mind
I look around
One final time
Then make my way
Out the door
And into the night
It’s time to leave
The farm behind
Hey, folks. I’m excited to let you know that a series of essays I’ve written about my experience as a deaf guy in a hearing world is being published at Gobblers & Masticadores, and the second in the series has gone live today. Many thanks to Juan Re Crivello for this opportunity to share my experiences with his readers. Today’s essay is “Service Dogs, Rabbit Hutches and ASL Humiliation: My Introduction to Deaf Culture ” and you can read it by following this link:
It’s my hope that sharing my life as a deaf person will raise awareness of this “invisible disability” and the impact it has on those of us with hearing loss, and perhaps enlighten those with normal hearing in order to bridge the gap between us. I hope you enjoy it.
Once again, much gratitude to Juan Re Crivello for his kindness and generosity. It’s truly an honor for me.
Don’t forget to follow and subscribe to Gobblers & Masticadores, where you’ll find some wonderful writing and plenty of food for thought.
I’d like to announce that my poem “Exhale” has been published at Chewers & Masticadores. A big thank you to Nolcha Fox and her team for sharing this piece with their readers. It’s always an honor and a delight to be published alongside some amazing writers at Chewers & Masticadores, so thanks so much, Nolcha!
“Exhale”
“A handful of words hastily shaken
Thrown like dice against a filthy brick wall
Skittering across deserted sidewalk
Bouncing into foul gutter rill
Profound thoughts from a tired mind…”
I’d be pleased if you’d read the rest of my poem by clicking this link. Also, be sure to follow and subscribe to Chewers & Masticadores. It’s a wonderful place for those who love writing.
Silent Pariah 