Here’s how I hitchhike. I come across an organizing principle and pull a trigger or 2, replacing subject matter with source phenomena, exploring only some musts: structure, acquisition, re-entanglement, mixed media — no Eros in ideas, room for the best except pure uncertainty. 
 
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 sonorous 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