I've hitchhiked on dusty roads. Been picked-up by day dreamers and Daedalus devotees. I've rode with end-of-life drunkards, swerving and curving on oily urban streets. I've been rejected as well. Thrown from fast cars, landing hard on soft shoulders of pebble and ice. Driver seat madmen. Those Holy seers and crippled souls. Those Grateful Dead Dead Heads, busted dashboards of Haight Ashbury haze. I wrote their numbers on poplar trees, bounteous pens elongated and slender as a roadless rage. I burned all so vainly in bonfires of the night. Remembrance of those Things Past. Nowadays, often I will tell, unsung friends of boundless times, horseless carriage of rumble seat rides. Someday soon in a paperless dream, I am to be that what I was; if a dusty road will hold me back.