Oh what a strange trip it’s been
They’re all gone.
The people and the visions.
Though the living room looks like Kansas after Dorothy left it.
Food strewn across the carpet, revealed in the orange wedge of sunlight as I throw open the porch curtain to let in fresh air.
The place smells of pot and hormones -- ashtrays overflowing with the endless parade of more ordinary cigarettes.
Butts even float in the bottoms of almost empty wine bottles.
I smell him, the stranger who stalked my girlfriend all night, giving us both hits of LSD as if the each tiny tablet was key for his getting between her legs.
His heavy cologne stains me with the outraged I was too stoned to stop.
She slumbers in the other room alone as I stand naked, bathed in sunlight.
I am changed.
A chemical reaction running me in a way I can’t describe, as if I was the rape victim, as if my virgin thoughts have been violated by the light show and the hallucinations, s if I am some new person craving to get back to what I once was.
I’m too scared to wake her and asked if she enjoyed the trip better than I did, her moans at the imaginary fountains of flowing color and her visions of God still echoing in me and the room.
I’m still scared, recalling my panic over the volume of the music and the cackle of laughter I was convinced would wake the landlady downstairs and bring the police.
I feel cheated, aching from the abuse of the night without any of the pleasure.
Outside, life starts over again, cars stirring onto the street, the blinking traffic lights over the overnight, returning to their sequence of stop and go.
Nothing seems changed, but me.
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