by Harijan

I want to get lost,
hitching miles from strangers,
lost in the conversation
with my driver,
a sleepless painter,
who, lost in creativity,
drove aimlessly till space and time
found her
in a lewd art
by a midnight gallery
illuinated by the full moon,
its audience lonely stars
crying rays of light
which shone on the tears down her cheek
as she dropped me off
another lonely highway exit.

I want to get lost,
in my neighborhood
with a cigarette in my hand
and music in my head,
lost in my little world
a brief afternoon psychotherapy
of the Self,
where I am both a shrink
and the crazy,
arguing with myself
intimate with the irrational
suddenly on International.
Escape for a brief minute
never to be found again
but missed anyways.

I want to get lost,
in the dance
to the rhythm
of proud embarrassment
balancing and twisting
confusing the faculty of coordination
and starting an academic debate
between the frontal cortex
and the cerebellum,
the debate,
interrupted by the up-and-down
from the knees
to the head
rocking out stupid
like nobody’s watching,
lost in my body
and something else ethereal.

I want to get lost
in the woods
walking in silence
except for my own labored breath
the sound of occasional bird
and dry branches
giving under my steps.
Slept an afternoon in a nameless field
woke up into an evening glow
empty of mind
except for the thought of the empty stomach
and for the fear of darkness
in my lonely lost path
felt the real warmth
of the soul.