Here’s how I hitchhike. I come across an organizing principle and pull a trigger or 2, replacing subject matter with source text, exploring only some musts: structure, acquisition, re-use, mixed media — no Eros in ideas, the best except the pure. One who hitches has no right to speak other than excellently. Self-conflict and compromise keep coming up as rich bases for ironic pleasure and symphonic failure. If that’s allowed. Primitive patterns and blue throats, crowbars taped to a tree, in the distance, Eroica... We haven’t been far away — the fields are twenty, chips are foam, our clothes thrown, The great We of fish, that’s what I say on a sea plane worked into the sky.