Blood Is Black In The Shadows Review
by Richard Vargas

Dennis Gulling, Blood Is Black In The Shadows, Cosmic Monolith Publishing, Available on Amazon, 2024, 47 pages, $7.99  ISBN 9798327825857

The poetry of Dennis Gulling is a quick read. It does not require an understanding of the mechanics or techniques taught in MFA programs or being familiar with that highfalutin term, “poetics.” His poems read like a synopsis of a pulp novel, or a descriptive snapshot of the dark side of human nature we all carry within and its potential to take over when we are pushed one time too many. He acknowledges its existence and holds it up for us to see.
Gulling is a disciple of the small press giant, Todd Moore, having been a student of his when Moore taught high school English in northern Illinois. They published several chapbooks together. And while Moore’s influence left its mark on Gulling’s work, I also sense a poetry that is more relatable for the reader. Todd’s poems were… well, Todd. His voice and personality were strong, and the style was easily recognized. Dennis stays in the background; the poet’s voice is anonymous. The focus remains on the poem and its artful depiction of human nature and our propensity for violence.
Several of the poems in this collection capture those last seconds of clarity before a violent death snuffs out the life of the victim, as if to emphasize that the act of dying is a fine art unto itself:

A lifetime of cruel mistakes
Poured from his mind
But no one would
Ever know he was
Whispering a woman’s name
When he hit the ground
( from Jumper p.12)
Walked into a Fast Mart
With his gun drawn
But the clerk saw him coming
And unloaded a shotgun into his guts
He died bad on the floor
His eyes locked on nothing but the end

(Come The Next, p.29)

The women in Gulling’s poems are the kind who discover the inner strength to reject victimhood and take a violent stand against their abusive circumstances, sometimes with a humor that reminds the reader of a scene from a Tarantino movie:

She’d had enough
And was packing all her stuff
After the police were gone
She threw everything into her car
And backed out of the driveway
With a poodle named Boris
Sitting on her lap

(from He Was Standing, p.17)

When he pulled off
The road to piss
She figured that was
As good a time as any
To call it quits
She slid into the driver’s seat
Put the car in drive    
And jammed on the gas

(from Breakup, p.37)

Whispering a secret
Song to herself
Her blouse was ripped open
Down the front
And the blood on her jeans
Was not her own

(from Movie, p.38)

Gulling reminds us that while society advocates peaceful resolution instead of violent action, the denial of our often-used ability to resort to violence, as means to an end, leads to dysfunction. His poems are reminders that before humankind can ascend to the ideals of peaceful cooperation, we must be truthful as to who we are right now:

The first thing he saw
Was the gun
With blood on the stock
Next to that was a
Wad of hundred dollar bills
Blood on those too
He stood still
And looked around
       (from He Pulled, p.36)

I thought they’d have wrapped him
In a blanket or something
But his bone white grinning face
Just stared at me
I bent over and closed his eyes
The lids felt like wax
       (from The Body, p.30)

Charles Bukowski said “An intellectual is a man who says a simple thing in a difficult way; an artist is a man who says a difficult thing in a simple way.” And in that regard, Dennis Gulling’s poetry deserves our attention, especially when considering humankind’s current quagmire. His language is simple and direct, his poetic vision aims true.