Here’s how I hitchhike. I pull on my gloves and come across an organizing principle for pulling a trigger or 2, replacing subject matter with source text, exploring only the musts: structure, acquisition, mis-use, peasant media — no Eros except in ideas, room for the best but never the pure. 

3, 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.