The Venerable Poem by Adam Bieber

Somewhere someone has found
Self-realization of what already is, something
You already know but have forgotten.
Probably an aged Indian man,
seated in a dark cave’s abyss, up-top some mountain, half-clothed
with rats gnawing his legs.
I am jealous.
His body: a joyous fountain of eternal energy,
springing a screen of prophetic visions,
the kind you dance in, play with, and wish to live in forever, where haloed angels’ kiss your forehead and a crickets’ symphony serenades.
I don’t look to escape like this life is some barred zoo.
I just want sufferings’ silliness
of acting trivial below a gravestone
and this man is my grease
to slipping from fear’s metal clasp,
father’s imposed misguided agenda, and to
forgetting my ex-girlfriend who hides from me now as well as
the teacher at the forefront of the room
slapping me with verbal assault on the importance of quantitative analysis
or the half-life of Manganese.
When I find him, this saint amongst man, he won’t refuse a seeker
and if he does,
I’ll sit on the doormat of his dirty cave until death’s rejection or
reception’s healing blanket.
I may rip many pages off a calendar before I
free myself from the ego’s ferris wheel of thought. I know
there is no health care, salary, or friendship
but I want,
I want opaque reality lucent like water within a wine glass,
the realization of birth and death as mental states and
surrendering to the tangled synchronistic stringing of moments.
Still Oneness!
I wander slowly toward him and
can already hear his first advice,
“young man, do not fret,
if you imagine, it has already happened.”