Ben Higginbotham Takes LSD

Vision burst like batter on him.
Bits of spectrum, grayscale, people's hats. The road was banked for motorcycles, and yet he had no motorcycle. He was crouched atop a callbox in his sister's underwear, hard salami pasted betwen his teeth. He burst into tears.
Along the road back down he found his clothing, bit by bit. One pocket of his jeans was full of mashed insects, a frog, some pondslime. The backs of his legs were scratched and weeping, battered. He removed his sister's underwear over these abrasions.
How do I know they were his sister's underwear?
Written in Sharpie inside the left buttock: Margie Higginbotham.
He found his shirt, his backpack, somewhat filled with gravel, one shoe, no socks.
He was wearing his socks. They were so much the same color as his legs, he thought, he hadn't noticed. He recalled howling, crying.
Saying over and over 'I feel nothing.'
He recalled an erection made of gummibears, and shuddered. Was it his, or someone else's?
He hobbled toward the city, and left himself above.
Bits of people's hats, he was exhausted.