The story I am now about to relate is absolutely true. I will try to recount it in exact detail, as nearly as I can remember. Certain parts I will have to paraphrase, as they involve creative endeavor of a supernatural sort and I doubt that I would be able to recreate the proper phrasing and artistry at this point in my life.

I used to live in Buena Park, not far from the famous “Knott’s Berry Farm”. I had a very large back yard with a large ash tree as well as fruit trees, including apricot, plum, and orange. The apricot was the largest of the fruit trees and the birds loved it: bright colored house finches, rock doves, mourning doves, spotted doves, blue jays, occasional cardinals, many birds. The most amazing was the veritable horde of sparrows I attracted with my feeding; they reminded me of the strange creatures in H.P.Lovecraft’s “The Shadow Over Innsmouth” as their pulsating, armless masses hopped around after grain or bread or crackers. I took no end of pleasure feeding the birds during the time I lived there, often making up little bird feeding games such as putting out huge twenty-pound piles of feed to see the frenzy that would ensue. Sometimes I would trace arty patterns with lines of seeds and soon would be treated to a rhythmic, feathered webwork of sparrows and house finches and doves.

My bird friends, however, suffered a couple of mortal terrors in their otherwise well-fed lives. One of these involved in a pair of mating kestrels who plagued them for two or three months during each summer. The other was a black female cat that lived next door and was, in the late summer of this particular year, extra predatory due to the fact that she was a new mother.

Now I am by nature a literate person, and I love to read. I am also quite obsessive about the works I like and tend to become deeply steeped in any author or poet I am drawn to, devouring every morsel by them I can find. During the time this story unfolds, I was about a month into a profound obsession with the writings of Edgar Allen Poe.

One afternoon I had just finished my first encounter with an amazing little poem of Poe’s entitled simply “Romance”. This poem displays a brilliant extended metaphor using birds in a unique fashion that runs the entire length of the poem. One of the salient features of this bird metaphor is the image of a “painted paroquet” or parakeet. I arose from my bed where I had been on my back reading and casually glanced out the back window to see what my own birds might be up to. To my surprise and delight there was, feeding with a flock of red-orange crowned house finches, a luminous parakeet. It was a real beauty; a very light, lime-green chiffon color that made it look as though it was built from a pearlescent meringue. I shook off the tremendous rush of portent I got from this discovery, chalking it up to coincidence. I figured it was just a bird that had escaped from its human captors and was rediscovering the free life.

The parakeet kept coming back with the finches to feed from the wooden-house bird feeder that sat atop a wrought iron pole towards the back of the yard. One late afternoon after reading and checking out the birds, parakeet included, I was nursing a small snifter of Armagnac & Frangelico, a favorite occasional drink of mine. I was suddenly seized by the most intense dream-state. It came out of nowhere and snowballed from an idle daydream into an absolute madness. I began pacing the house like a caged lunatic; this was no ordinary daydream!

In this visionary state, I was with Poe. Not just with Poe; at times I was Poe! I was also at times a highly cultured gentleman who was entertaining Poe and a number of other literate guests in a large mansion house in upper Manhattan. After all the other guests had either departed for home or retired for the evening, I was still up, engaged in a fevered discussion with Poe in a highly refined sitting room. We were both headily intensified by the Cognac we had been enjoying and by the discussion. Our topic had found its way from literary to the subject of narcotic drugs, most notably, opium and hashish. A sly smile crept across my face. I left the room briefly and returned with something wrapped in a large silk scarf embellished with wildly oriental design work. I set it on a table and unwrapped it.

This act revealed the most amazing water-pipe you can imagine. The bottom was segmented and as large as a pumpkin. These sections were of alternating dark green and blood-red. The entire body, neck, and dual bowls of the pipe were of blown glass, incredibly artful in its execution. At the top of the bulbous part, the red and green segments wound around each other in a braid. As they rose, they both acquired a fine filigree-like workmanship of very realistic scales! Even at first glance, it was obvious that the green was a cobra and the red was a dragon, complete with strangely alien spines growing from its back, leathery looking wings, and legs which grasped the body of the serpent in a death grip. At the very top, the dragon’s neck and head curled around in a manner which placed its gaping, upturned maw wide open just beneath the throat of the cobra. In the back of the dragon’s own throat was a brass mesh over the channel going down toward the bowels of the pipe. The cobra’s “hood” was almost completely spread and formed a perfect opium or hash-oil pipe bulb. In a feat of the most amazingly artistic detail-work, the cobra’s eyes were two tiny rubies that shown evilly and were matched by a dark red, glass tongue which flicked from its open mouth. The dragon continued this theme of color alternation with emeralds for its eyes and a dark green tongue that roared from its mouth. There were three smoking tubes mounted to the upper sides of the pumpkin body. These were made of a bone-like substance held together beneath a sort of fabric meshwork such as one finds in a Chinese finger puzzle. These flexible tubes, tipped by dark ebony stems, were looped into holders at the waist of the pipe.

I packed the dragon-mouth bowl with an aromatic tobacco and then took a chunk of smoldering hashish, which I had prepared at the end of a hatpin by holding a match under it, careful not to let it actually catch fire, and crumbled it into the shag. Next I took a small spatula into a pot of opium and smeared the black concoction into the middle of the snake’s hood. The idea was that the delirious smokers would be drawing in a most delicious combination of narcotics. The lower part of the pipe was filled, not with water, but with an exotic, fragrant oil. We smoked; more than one bowl too. At this point I was becoming more and more Poe, and less and less the cultured friend. I was so intensely pulled into this dream by now that I was completely oblivious to the fact that, in “real life”, I was lurching from room to room in my house like a raving maniac. Now I am Poe!

The cultured friend has finally retired in the wee hours. This must be within a year or so after the unbearably tragic death of Poe’s beloved “little wifey” and not all that many years before the writer’s own untimely demise, since I feel overwhelmed with a dull, aching grief that fills my whole being. I burn with an unspecified need for some kind of revenge; revenge at no one in particular, but more at the unfairness of life and the many nasty people I have been forced to endure over the years.

There is a huge desk in the room with cubbyholes that contain stationary, pens, bottles of India Ink, pencils and gum erasers. I sit, while very ripped on drugs and alcohol, at this desk. I open one of the bottles and fill the inkpot at one side of the desktop. I withdraw some sheets of fine linen stationary from a cubbyhole. I begin to write.

Now, this is the part of this absolutely true story where I will be forced to paraphrase. At this stage of my “episode”, I was literally beyond my normal self and was actually writing a story as Poe. It was in a completely Poe-esque language and possessed an inspired invention and cleverness of craft that was very different than anything I have ever created. I simply can’t write like that as my own self. I can, however, remember all the salient details of the story and its characters as well as the tone and pace. It is burned into my brain with an intensity not to be altered by mere time. I will attempt to formulate this tale in a manner similar to Dylan Thomas’ narrative screenplay, “The Beach At Falesa”, since that will impart the basic elements in a dramatic manner without my own writing style intruding too much.

We open, after a brief but pointed discourse on differences and similarities between tigers and humans, to a scene on the large front porch of a grand hotel in a prosperous village in British Colonial-era India. There is a tall, elegant, very handsome gentleman, perhaps fiftyish, accompanied by an equally elegant young woman in her mid-20s, who has her arm in his. He is speaking to a strange, very dark Indian man with lively, bright eyes who is nearly a midget in stature but seems to possess the energy of several larger men within his tiny frame.

As other guests come and go or lounge at cards or afternoon drinks and discourse, it becomes apparent through the conversation that the larger man is English, that the young woman is his wife of several years, that he is a “big-game” sport-hunter who has come out of semi-retirement at the request of the local Rani. It seems that there is a large man-killing Bengal tiger on the loose in the area and that it has killed the Rani’s husband, the Rajah, who was greatly beloved by all in the area. Since this Englishman had taken a very large Bengal as a trophy from this same area some years before, he had become somewhat legendary in these parts. The Rani thought of him when she wished to exact her revenge (as well as for the protection of “her people” of course).

The little Indian is saying how sorry he is that the Englishman must return home empty-handed after only a fortnight, but that he understands there are pressing business matters that must be attended to in London. How strange that there has been not a trace of their tiger the entire two weeks they have been here, but it must not be fated that the great predator should die at this time.

The Rani, for whom the little man is an agent as well as proprietor of the hotel, would like the Britisher to come to her palace for a light tea. She has only communicated to him through her various agents and has yet to meet him in person. Due to the fact he is leaving the next morning, she would like to personally thank him for his troubles this afternoon. The man agrees, and after instructing his wife to finish her packing, he leaves with the little Indian.

They take a shortcut, down a wide, well-traveled dirt path to the Rani’s palace, which is only about a mile from the village. The trail runs through a not-too-heavily-wooded forest and then a meadow and arrives at a high wall of colored stone and rather grotesque shape with a tremendous iron gate in the very middle. Upon entering, the man finds a gloriously foreign spectacle of a palace complete with strange minarets and towers and oddly formed roofs and stairways in abundance. The little man bids farewell and returns to the hotel. An impossibly tall and slender man, another dark-skinned Indian who doesn’t speak a word, beckons the Englishman to follow him.

The Englishman is taken to an expansive, light and plant filled room with an afternoon dining area in one corner near the huge windows. He is seated at a table and a platter of fruit and some kind of unfamiliar jam and bread is brought in by the “long” man. He leaves and soon returns again with a pot of fresh brewed tea and two ornate cups as well as the Rani, who is extremely gracious and charming as the Englishman rises to greet her. The Britisher can’t help noticing her ample bosom and deliciously lovely face and form. Her cat-like movements entrance him and he finds himself entertaining thoughts of marital digression, in spite of his young wife back at the hotel.

After snacking while speaking of tiger matters and how disappointed the Rani is at the apparent failure of the hunt, she produces a small water pipe which seems to have its bowl filled with strange herbs. She takes one of the stems and offers him the other. He declines, saying that he only partakes of alcohol and that only on rare occasions.

“Very well,” she says and lights the bowl with a long wooden match. As she smokes she continues talking to him. He notices a single thick plume of oddly hued smoke curling from the bowl and writhing gently to his nose; her voice is positively hypnotic in its murmuring, lulling, soothing quality; he stares at her face which seems almost to be melting away. Aghast, he realizes she seems to be metamorphosing, growing whiskers and tiger stripes as her fang filled snout emerges. It seems all eternity is swept back and away from the emerging visage like the wake falling away from the prow of an attacking vessel! A pang of emergency flashes through him and he struggles for all his worth to stretch his hand to the pistol in his belt. It is as if he is straining with all his might to awaken from a terrible and overpowering nightmare. Just as his hand finally closes on the handle of the pistol he snaps alert and she is there as before, completely normal, finished smoking and returning the stem to its holder. He is dazed.

He can’t believe his reaction and how powerful the drug in the pipe must be. The Rani is saying: “...and so you can see how very, very unfortunate it is that you must return to your home so far away. I had so hoped that you would provide me with some measure of vengence for the loss of my husband to that evil Rajah-killer. He was my soul-mate. Here will never be a replacement for him as long as I live. It is very sad. But you must be going now; it is late. The sun will soon set. Are you sure you can find the way to the hotel. The path is wide and easy to follow and you should be able get back before the sun sets. Well then, I bid you good afternoon and you have my sincerest thanks for deigning to visit me in my sorrow.”

The “long” man then escorts the Englishman to the gate and makes sure he is on the right path. The Englishman is alone on the path, walking at a brisk pace toward the hotel.

The trees seem now to be taking on an outre and jaded appearance as the late afternoon sun slants obliquely through them and all shadows have assumed grotesque arabesque patterns which mutate rapidly almost as if they were a living, serpentine thing. About half-way back he begins to notice a light, padding sound on the path nearby somewhere. He can’t tell exactly where it is coming from, but it seems to match his own pace perfectly. It is as if great cat-paws are stalking him and he quickens his pace. The padding paws quicken too. He is gripped by a sensation he hasn’t felt since he was a child – fear!

The fear escalates to an almost overpowering terror which blends in a most curious manner with the intense rage of his own will and offended vanity at allowing himself to be intimidated this way. It is almost as if a fierce new emotion is being forged within his heart. He breaks into a full run as he can now hear great gulps of raw tiger breath at his back and the padding of paws is echoed by his own pounding heartbeat. He and the tiger are almost as one as he approaches the back garden wall of the hotel. In an instant, he realizes he can go over the garden wall where the glass double doors at the rear of his ground floor rooms would be; where his wife, his lovely young wife would be awaiting his return, much more quickly than he could go all the way around to the front of the immense building. His heart is filled with an intense longing for the safety of his wife’s love as well as with an incredible fierceness of will to survive and master, this blended with utter terror. To his amazement he clears the wall in a single graceful leap.

He sees his wife at her trunks, packing, in the now well lit bedroom, but in a chaotic fury of distress and confusion, he realizes his momentum has carried him crashing through the glass doors into the room. His wife turns abruptly, a blood-curdling scream escaping her round mouth. The Englishman opens his own throat and tries in vain to call her name but, oh agony, oh despair! His efforts are met with a great tiger’s coughing roar as he glimpses the longish snout now protruding from before his eyes. He tries again to call out, just as the little Indian man bursts through the bedroom door with an immense double-barrelled shotgun in his hands. The great killer’s final utterence is choked off in mid-roar by a searing prism of pain that slices into his inward parts as he watches teeth, bits of flesh and a geyser of blood eructing away from his face in place of what should have been his voice. The last thing he sees as his vision fades to darkness is the little man, thrust violently backwards from the recoil of the huge gun, involuntarily discharging the second barrel of buckshot through his wife’s vertically standing steamer trunk, sending many bits of her finery into a great snow of cloth confetti showering into the room.

A brief epilogue has the wife on the front porch stammering excitedly to the tiny Indian; something like: “Oh, where is he! He should have returned by now. And won’t he be surprised! Here we spend a fortnight looking for the great beast and it invades our very rooms while he is away saying goodbye to the Rani! Oh, he will surely be in a state when he finds out.”

At this point in my own delirium, I was vaguely aware of Poe/myself crashing into a deep torpor right at the desk upon finishing the story. I had a certainty that this story actually exists in Poe’s own drunken, drug-addled handwriting and is intact to this day. It must be stored in a trunk, along with that water-pipe in the attic of that same mansion house in New York.

Even as I understood these things, I was also being rapidly swirled right back to “real-time”. I tried some to re-enter the dream, for I wanted more, but it was as if I had been yanked back to “reality” by some urgency in my own world. There was a gently prodding knowledge that the Poe dream was a place to which I could not return. I paced about the house in a daze for a short while, then lit a Sherman’s “cigaretello”, mixed another Armagnac & Frangelico, then decided to feed the birds.

As I approached the bird feeding station, I couldn’t help noticing that there were no birds to be seen at all. Then, there on the ground by the base of the iron bird feeder pole, I found what was left of the lime-green chiffon parakeet. Just a whole bunch of feathers lie around the pole. It had been a meal for that black cat that lived next door!

The very next day, one of the kestrels took my very favorite from the horde of sparrows, a fledgling male with a very sweet voiced chirp that seemed to brighten the whole flock. The kestrel shot into the yard like a lightning bolt, sending the flock scrambling for the apricot tree. One of the sparrows went by the corner of the window where I watched in awe, its wings stroking furiously in mortal terror. It was soon apparent that they didn’t all make it out alive. Shortly thereafter, it was also apparent which one had pecked the dust, as his sweet chirping was absent from the overall racket which sparrows always make. The rest of the sparrows then did the strangest thing; they mourned for a full day and a half! Very bizarre behavior for sparrows, since they are usually back to feeding and making noise after one of them gets killed. But my horde was sullen and listless and seemed weary beyond endurance for a long time before things gradually returned to normal.

An hour or two after this major shock in sparrowland, I happened to look out the back window across the now sparrowless yard to see the most immense, raven-like crow I have ever seen in my life. It stood motionless on the concrete block fence at the back of the lot, directly in line with the bird feeder to my vision. I was filled with an overpowering sensation that some sort of supernatural “trade” had been made between myself and Edgar Allen Poe, right across the space-time continuum! I don’t know what the exact nature of such an exchange might have been, but I do know that over the next several years, I wrote some of the darkest, saddest, most ethereal poetry and song lyrics in my overall body of work. My soul was encrusted by a charcoal ring of bitterness and muted grief which has only recently left me.