Cape Sebastian Psychedelia

At the trail head of Cape Sebastian,

she split a homemade candy bar

a concoction of chocolate, coconut

psilocybin mushrooms,

handed me half,

the first dose

of my life.

She swore by their healing effects,

not party propensities,

used only in nature

when she wanted to summon

fresh binoculars and a microscope to view the world

that had whipped her so very hard in the past.

It was her idea,

I was game.

I needed something to get

me off the canvas,

before the bell rang,

a haymaker delivered

by the State

with hands handcuffed behind my back,

key thrown away.

I ate my half,

it tasted like

a childhood Mounds.

Off we went

down the forested trail

that led to a secret beach

or so I was told

by a teetering lush

in the Sea Star Lounge.

The hike commenced.

The trail, a series of switchbacks down to the cape,

to the ocean,

an alleged secret beach.

When was it going to hit?

It’s always different for everyone.

Will I know when it does? How?

You’ll know.

Would I walk off a skyscraper?

Would Ebeneezer Scrooge materialize and try to perform fellatio on me?

Would Sarah Palin appear naked on all fours, snarling like a savage beast,

then transform into a gelatinous elephant?

Would Satan show and weep black tears of joy?

Would a blue-eyed, blonde-haired Jesus ressurect,

ask me why I became an atheist after being baptized at ten years old

in lukewarm water while wearing a plastic suit?

Would I become a shaman and start reciting lyrics from Beck’s Odelay?

Heads are hanging from the garbage man trees


Mouthwash jukebox gasoline
Pistols are pointing at a poor man’s pockets
Smiling eyes ripping out of his sockets

All propaganda she said,

Johnny Law, pharmaceutical giants, Just Say No dipshits.

We hiked the trail,

nothing was happening to either one of us.

We repelled with a rope down to the secret beach,

a cove with driftwood galore.

Christ, the lush at the bar was right!

We began building a driftwood fort.

She asked for guidance.

I told her to sense instinct,

so she slid off her top,

went to work.

Seconds later

she said,

I’m feeling it.

I felt nothing.

We built a fort,

she spoke in haiku,

her Che Guevara, Malcolm X tattoos

rippled during the labor.

We stripped,

sprinted to the waves,

dived in headlong,

shot up,

a real baptism

in saltwater

every Christian really needs,

then they’d forswear Christianity forever.

When is it going to hit?

Patience. It will.

We repelled back up to the trail.

The hike uphill began.

I followed because I worshiped her marathoner’s ass.

One stretch paralleled the ocean, roiling waves,

sea stacks, sea spray, rocks, kelp beds, tiny covers, inlets, shore birds,

a mini waterfall,

tide pools a hundred feet below.

It hit me.

I told her to stop.

I feel it.

She said nothing.

My breathing crystallized.

I felt my pulse: almost non-existent.

I surveyed the horizon.

The ocean shimmered translucent green and white.

I’d looked at the ocean a hundred thousand times in my Oregon Coast life.

Never like this. What was this light? It was conversing with me.

I looked down to the water.

My vision extraordinary.

I saw a seal bouncing in the surf, eating mussels.

I told her.

She didn’t see it.

We moved closer to the cliff.

I pointed.

How can you see that?

Something’s happened.

Every atom of depression vaporized.

I jumped up from the canvas.

I shadow boxed!

Bring on the State’s Flyweight champion!

I’m going to kick ass

with a right body blow and short left uppercut that crushed the jaws.

I looked at my gorgeous cut man.

She was smiling, squinting.

Everyone needs a good cut man in their corner

for the challenge that is American life.

You are lucky if you find one

who can salve the wound,

help you keep fighting.

They may even have to cut you like Mick

did to Rocky,

blood spurting so you can fight on.

We resumed our hike.

We held hands, skipped.

We saw three people headed our direction

bearing an uncanny facial and fashion resemblance to

Shaggy, Velma and Daphne from the Scooby Do cartoon.

We said hello to one another.

Three minutes later,

I looked down the cape and saw Shaggy, Daphne and Velma

running in silhouette blacked out by the sun,

running like the gang ran when chased by a ghoulish monster.

I screamed Zoinks!,

Shaggy’s favorite euphemism.

She laughed.

We repaired to the Sea Star for IPAs.

She listened to me rhapsodize.

I needed the candy bar once a month.

I stared into the swirling luminosity of her eyes,

my cut man,

and had never seen eyes like that before or since.

That night,

I screamed Zoinks!

as we intertwined and writhed

inside a sleeping bag.

She laughed again

but didn’t stop her movement.