I’m the Ural owl. I haunt and possess you. If you see me in your dreams, you’re a dead human, a rotting corpse.
After dark, I’ll return to the crimson room at the top of the stairs, my tiny home in the seedy part of town, where the junkies and alkies O.D. on a cornucopia of poisons and feast on freaky visions. But in the early morning or afternoon, I sit in Eros Park and count the myriad objects of beauty. Some mornings, I come to the park about an hour before dawn. I wait for the light, the crepuscular insects, and a glorious, gold sunrise. I take a few deep breaths, close my eyes, and listen to the holy rhythm that soothes me, and imagine I’m floating in a sun-baked ocean or lying in the hot iridescent sand on a pristine beach below a tropical sun. And I listen to the melodious ebb and flow of the turquoise waves. Continue reading THE CRIMSON ROOM AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS By Dr. Mel Waldman
I fear the dawn. The night and its soothing darkness are my cocoon. They protect me from an unknown danger. But when the crepuscular insects and I rise with the savage light of dawn, my fragile heart begins to pound. Thump! Thump! Thump! The pounding gets louder and faster. Soon, my hands tremble and my shattered soul case-my mortal shell of flesh-shakes uncontrollably. I fear I will die! I pop a couple pills to calm my nerves. I black out. Continue reading I FEAR THE DAWN by Dr. Mel Waldman
The long-legged blonde with a tattoo of St. Jude on her left arm staggers into the abandoned building, stumbles across a long dark hallway, and descends the stairs into the dimly lit basement. She knocks on a wooden door. Someone looks through a peephole. Slowly, the creaking door opens.
She enters the House of the Dead, a subterranean candy store with a cornucopia of mind-altering drugs. The laconic guard with one eye, an empty socket and a piece in his right hand, mutters, “Okay,” and lets her pass.
She scurries down the corridor like a rat in a maze approaching its coveted reward. At the end of the passageway she turns left and collides with The Ghost, a skeletal albino in charge of the drug den.
“Whatya got for me, Laura?”
She hands him the money.
“You need a fix, Laura,” he says maliciously, as he glances at her convulsive body and trembling hands. “Go sit in the corner and wait.”
After she shoots up and mellows out, she smokes and ingests a smorgasbord of poisons. Nikki, the androgynous necromancer, slithers up to her. Looking up at the pretty sorcerer with lapis lazuli eyes, she whispers, “Come back another time, darling. Don’t feel like talking to the dead now. Just chilling.”
“Of course, sweetie. But how about a quick Tarot reading?”
Gazing quizzically at the adept magician, she asks, “How much?”
“For you, me lovely princess, in this beautiful moment, here and now in the House of the Dead, it’s free.”
In the wasteland of Brooklyn, New York, I, Dan T. Matthews, sit on my tiny terrace clutching an old hardcover copy of Carlos Castaneda’s The Teachings of Don Juan. On this dog day afternoon in August, I devour strawberry shortcake, White Russians, the designer drug XES, and Carlos’s hallucinogenic visions. Continue reading Forbidden Island By Dr. Mel Waldman
Genesis 4:8 – King James Bible
“And Cain talked with Abel his brother: And it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel his brother and killed him.”
Cain Jones, owner of Cain’s Bar and Grill, was in big money trouble with Jimmy the Knife, a tall skinny psycho hood. Continue reading Cain and Abel (REDUX) by Dr. Mel Waldman
I talk to my T-shirt at Café Nostalgia. It’s quite smart, you see.
Last year, I visited the Neo-T-shirt Corporation. A salesman sold me a customized, computerized smart T-shirt. It contains all the designs of every T-shirt I’ve worn and all the memories associated with all my old T-shirts.
Sprawled out on my super-king-size bed like a fat chicken waiting to be severed and split apart – its legs broken with the swift twist of a Continue reading THE G.I. CHARITY REPRESENTATIVE VISITS THE MAMMOTH MAN AND HIS BELOVED SCORPIONS By Dr. Mel Waldman
I live alone in Room X, a rat hole the size of a large closet. I call it my suicide room. My landlord labels it a studio apartment. In my Continue reading THE MIRROR IN ROOM X by Dr. Mel Waldman
A spoken word Bizarro piece.
Featuring the dulcet tones of The Dictator