It’s kind of funny how you can go from walking around with nothing but lint in you pocket and being totally stoked, to walking around with a pocket full of keys and being totally bummed.
It starts out simply and seductively. I’ll just get this car so I can snowboard more. Wrong. Anything that let’s you snowboard more is a scam. It won’t let you snowboard more because you ride every day and a car can’t add days to the week.
“I’ll just get this little night job so I can buy gas,” you hear yourself saying. There’s another key. Then your job starts making you miss sleep, so you can’t snowboard as hard or as long as you used to. And you need stuff to wear to work. You need a place to change and store your stuff. Now you have an address, that’s another key. Soon you have to get a day job because you’re not making enough money at night. The keys start adding up.
Now that you have a job, girls know you’re not a total loss and you end up with a girlfriend. She wants you to hang with her once in a while instead of going boarding all the time. First, she gives you the key to her heart, and then the key to her apartment. That’s two more. You can’t give her the key to your heart because snowboarding put a combination lock on it and only your snowboard knows the number.
Now you have a bunch of keys in your pocket. They’re high-maintenance items. You have to take care of them. They’re weighing you down. Snowboarding is slowly slipping away, and you don’t even notice.
One day, cruising to your full-time office job that you had to get a few years back to make payments on all your keys, you drive past a guy on the corner with his thumb out and a snowboard under his arm. While speeding by you start thinking about the guy you just passed. He looked like you used to—snowboard and nothing else. As you pull into the parking lot at work, you can’t get the hitchhiker out of your head. Your mind keeps wandering back. Pulling all the keys out of you pocket and jingling them, you think about what you really want from life.
Running back to your car, you reverse out of the parking lot and squeal a Rockford in the middle of the four-lane highway. You’ve got to get away from your keys. You begin throwing them out the window as you blow down the highway. First to go is the key to the door at work. Then you backhand your girlfriend’s apartment key out the passenger window. Flick, there goes the key to the storage unit, then the key to her car. Flick, flick, flick. You feel better each time a key flies out the window and goes bouncing down the pavement at 100 mph. You don’t even slow down for the tollbooth, paying instead with the tossed key to your office and the executive washroom.
You only have two keys left. You unlock your house, run in, grab your snowboard, and dash out of the house. You leave the key to your house sitting in the lock to the front door. Whoever finds the house open can take it, and all your stuff. You don’t need it anymore. You jump back into the car and start burning rubber through all four gears back to the highway where you saw the hitcher.
He’s still there. You slam on the brakes. When he opens the car door, you look into his eyes. It’s you. It’s the life you left behind when you sold out.

Always say, hitchers be wary...

Rain drives eve, dark assassin
Pitied her, my new companion

Soaking wet in dress pale blue
Dropped her in Archer Avenue

Her shadow gone, in car though
Inside phosphorescently aglow

While clouds tumbled, chill scary
Had I driven Resurrection Mary?

I’m here to capture birds!
Exclaimed the hiker in the back
We’d made the call to pick him up
Along our dusty track

He spoke at quite a volume
And his statement had me fear
Just what kind of character
Was riding with us here

And it was with due concern
We were alone it did occur
As upon our exploration
Of the great outback it were

What does he do with birds?
I thought to myself and friend
By her glance I saw that she’d
Considered the same end

Perhaps he’s meaning humans
When he speaks to us of birds
Playing time to make a strike
Misleading with his words

We best get to the bottom
I don’t like the sound of this
And who the hell captures birds?
There is something here amiss

Tell us more dear hiker
For we don’t understand
Do you mean your taking photos
Of birds in this great land?

Again he answers loudly
Cameras are no match
Birds don’t sit still, so with his eyes
He considers it a catch

Things become much clearer
And I feel somewhat a fool
He’s just an honest birdwatcher
Doing it old school

And he’s from a foreign country
Dutch I hazard the guess
Are you from the Netherlands?
He replies a booming yes!

The man has quite the passion
He’s travelled very far
Just for our birds, first by plane
And lately in our car

But we are in the outback
What on earth brought you here?
Twas by the train with a few stops
For rare birds that I could peer

This hiker most impressive
Tell us more of what you’ve seen
Speak of rare birds you’ve captured
And places that you’ve been

I have been to Epping!
Loud and proud he is again
I stayed with a friend
And caught your fairy wren

I have been to Capertee
And nothing could be sweeter
Than spotting a rare endangered
Regent Honeyeater

I’ve been to Lake Menindee
Full it’s quite the site to see
But pretty rainbow bee eaters
Are what appealed to me

Outside of Broken Hill we were
When our paths converged
We to spot rare flowers
Him to capture birds

We reached his sanctuary
And dropped him at the gate
Sorry that we couldn’t join
The day was getting late

We made for sculptured sunset
He waved grateful, on his own
As we drove off, we wondered
How the hell would he get home?

Cars were parked all over the yard, with rusted parts, and chipped paint, that gave way to faint brown sprays on jagged window frames.

And where the oil puddles turned the tall grass grey, a trail was made that lead the way, to the house where the bodies laid.

Stripped of clothes, and filleted in droves, they were posed in ways i couldn't explain.

He used a hammer to remove the teeth, and neatly sawed them into pieces at the creases, as he dumps the clumps into a drum of something acidic, before pouring it down the sink, where he swiped the fodder, and runs the water until clean.

He then places the teeth on sheets of torn cloth that he bundles up, and stashes up in the loft, before heading off for the street, to repeat his play, to the piece, so his dreams can seep into your day.

He was a hitch hiker, having his way.

The alien's dropped off the old long haired hitch-hitcher
Named Willie at taco bell....
They left him with nothing but
His clothes on his back
And a sign that read
(Dropped off by alien's, need TACO )

Daisy, Daisy give me your answer do........
boy! That Cadillac was one hell of a piece of engineering.
Burned a long time, like it enjoyed the pain of the flames.
He smiled at the thought.
Handmade by union men the way it should always be.
Not those ******* up ***** like Jimmy Hoffa either.
That *******, probably a ****** like hoover.
The image of him in a basque stuck.
Made him angry, but he soon reined it in.
Lecter was never angry. Not in the books.
He prefered the books, no change-the -ending for the mass appeal.
******* movies.
He was cautious now, the fake i.d. for the rental would fool most.
He was pushing things, her blood in the trunk even burnt black worried him. Next time will be better.
In Daisy's book was a circled name with hearts drawn around it.
Louisa. Her address as well. Nice and easy. 200 miles to go.
Make like Rutger in The Hitcher, move west....
The VW Rabbit was a ****** car after the Caddy.
The two kid's didn't want to give it up easy, but they did in the end.
They looked so silly, tied back-to-back in the rear seat, legs broke to squeeze them in.
Made him smile all through the night.
No blood this time, not yet anyway. Playing Slipknot to **** him off, little *****.
Well write a song for these two, clown boy.
He had looked on their lap-top at the poetry site.
Saw the latest post from the pub landlord. He was a little confused, this poem didn't seem to be telling him his next move.
He dragged them out into a ditch before dawn, stood on their necks to **** them, like the coyote trappers did, cruel *******.
No blood, just **** all over each other as they died.
Maybe he'd get a reward poem for doing it, in the meantime finding Louisa would keep him occupied.
The vw had a cheap sat nav, hope she's home.....

Every actual hitch hiker has a story,
who wants to listen?

Hey, tell me yours, I tell you mine,
that's how Cheers worked, like
on TV
people can listen to others as if the others
was on TV, pay attention,
and these talking heads say, hey, lemme
drive and
think, what did you just, say, I mean, iusta one iota
ago time wise, did you just think

I yoosta be in a band, for a minute, we did one show.
I killed it.
I died.

Yeah, I thought that was you.
Then you were that other guy, from Barstow.

I stopped to give a hitcher a ride
She kept calling me 'Flower'
and this small mystery
holds within itself
a lifetimes meditation.

I'm shy to shiver, cry me a river, but deliver my silver, it was my company shunning me in the month we had slithered, this Earth will quiver, but I bicker to eliminate quicker, though it retaliates by gravitating traps till I'm sicker, so it gets richer, I picture me alone with a hitcher, I wish to ditch her, never kiss her, glitch, stitch and then ***** her, but who's the tricker?, my scripts or just the fact that she's thicker with all my flickers, predictable, this chick is just slicker.