Head in the Clouds, Feet on the Ground

This is what we've been doing all along. And Burroughs and Ginsberg reach their long arms forward in history, poking and nudging us along this moving sidewalk. The robotic lurkers will forever stomp along, weary, living in treehouses with their feet in someone else's shoes.

We cut up the sky with man-made purple paper cutters and everything is 

not groovy-

the mass is sticky, ugly, and somehow alluring- so we jump in and stir about.

Whoa and they'll always bottle it up and sell it for double its worth, as we unwittingly become the poster children for a better life.

There is always a THEY, a blind mass of volunteers who want to become right and powerful and print textbooks that smirk at you and hit you when you bend down.

Impatient for illustration, craving categories, and pushing around carts of other humans too sad to jump off and hitch-hike back through the desert.

Panooshing, zooming, sitting, luxuriating in the clouds with our feet on the ground- 

we scare the successful with our electronic tools of transcendence.

What a world one can enter while Panooshing, and quick you better buy this shit, he says, "lest you end up unhappy and succesful, huh?" 

You say Panoon is the way to go, we say it's a way of going. And we're gone.