if 6 was 9

If the sun
refused to shine
I don’t mind
I don’t mind

If the mountains
fell in the sea
Let it be
it ain’t me

I got my own world to live through
And I ain’t going to copy you

Now if 6
turned out to be 9
I don’t mind
I don’t mind

If all the hippies
cut off all their hair
I don’t care
I don’t care

Cause I got my own world to live through
And I ain’t going to copy you

White-collared conservative flashing down the street
Pointing their plastic finger at me
They’re hoping soon, my kind will drop and die
But I’m going to wave my freak flag
high

Wave on
wave on

Fall mountains
just don’t fall on me

Go ahead on Mr. Businessman
you can’t dress like me

Stripes

Nobody knows what I’m talking about

I’ve got my own life to live
I’m the one that’s going to have to die
When it’s time for me to die

So let me live my life
the way I want to

Sing on brother
Play on drummer

meditation

Churches and ashrams
ring their bells,
attracting some

while others refuse
partial solutions
to the complete problem

and pass by

knowing that, really, you’re
all you need in that encounter
always here and now, wherever

Children of the Milky Way
commune
in a larger room

— Stan Hartman

spheres

Sea-water, and all living below it,
Forests at the bottom of the sea — the branches and leaves,
Sea-lettuce, vast lichens, strange flowers and seeds — the thick tangle, the openings, and the pink turf,
Different colors, pale gray and green, purple, white, and gold — the play of light through the water,
Dumb swimmers there among the rocks — coral, gluten, grass, rushes — and the aliment of the swimmers,
Sluggish existences grazing there, suspended, or slowly crawling close to the bottom,
The sperm-whale at the surface, blowing air and spray, or disporting with his flukes,
The leaden-eyed shark, the walrus, the turtle, the hairy sea-leopard, and the sting-ray;
Passions there — wars, pursuits, tribes — sight in those ocean depths — breathing that thick-breathing air, as so many do,
The change thence to the sight here, and to the subtle air breathed by beings like us, who walk this sphere;
The change onward from ours to that of beings who walk other spheres.

Walt Whitman; Leaves of Grass; 16