Your Friendship is a Museum by Alex Telman

 

 

Your Friendship is a Museum is a collection of poems that captures the intricate, sometimes paradoxical nature of human connection. Written mostly in 2005, these poems explore the complex landscape of relationships, drawing vivid metaphors that illuminate both the beauty and the shadows that define them. Each piece invites readers to walk through a gallery of emotions, memories, and reflections, where every moment shared, whether fleeting or enduring, becomes a work of art in its own right. With sharp wit and heartfelt vulnerability, this book offers an intimate look at the quiet yet powerful ways friendships shape our lives.

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This is a poetic exploration of the complexities of human connection, written mostly in 2005. Through vivid metaphors and sharp imagery, the poems capture the beauty, contradictions, and raw emotions of friendship. Each piece invites readers to reflect on how relationships shape and define us, offering a unique glimpse into the heart of connection.

 

Sample

Writing is a Sentence

 

writing is a sentence,

a death sentence

where weeping thoughts are finger-jutted

deep into crumbling crevices of absurdity

clinging from cliff-faces of remorse

at moments of innocence and beauty forgone;

hope was the victim,

confusion the executioner.

 

sometimes the writer

has too much to say

to say what he means;

there is no escape

no u-turn possible

when two words collide like strangers

blind-folded on a netless tightrope.

 

there is no safety net

when a writer’s journey ends

and a reader’s journey begins;

the writer hovers at a cliff-face

beyond which looms the abyss of misunderstanding,

before which Time pushes him forward,

and his journey always ends at that cliff-face,

broken handed, dry mouthed, bitter.

 

the most intense writer says

there is nothing left to say

but everything left to talk about;

his high-wire is fixed above the cliff edge

as he grapples to deliver new dreams to dream

and lights our path to new illuminations-

were the reader to understand Time’s cruel push,

the delicate balance between writer and reader

would be forever disheveled,

and the executioner’s job complete.

 

invariably writing is a sentence,

a death sentence.

 

***

 

Excerpt from, “The Futile Struggles of I.M. Graves.”

 

SUNRISE:

IM Graves lays on a crumpled bed,

a dirty coffee cup, an alarm clock

thrown on the floor.

His neck stretches left to right

then left again as his shoulders tighten

to the possibility of standing up.

He glances the window a meditative glance

and the voices of the newly-weds next door

mingle with the voices in his head.

It is not yet sunrise, thinks IM Graves,

and the air is crisp and clear

and all that lives

lives inside me; between my ears

is all I see and hear and taste

and smell and feel

and nothing exists outside

except what I sense inside

and the only order in the world

is the the order I make

from the chaos in my head;

and the only truths are the truths I create

from the absurdities in my head

and the only reality is is the reality that screams,

“I exist…”

and the only word that sticks to my mind

and can’t come out is,

“… alone!”

Alone with the world that I create in my head,

the only life that exists

is the life I create in my head.

Life?

We are dead before we are born

and we are dead after we die

and in between these deaths

is an intermission called ‘life,’

a tiny stream meandering slowly

below two cliffs,

between the two escarpments of death

and all my stream experiences

is what my stream creates-

it comes from one ocean

and flows into another.

From the moment of its birth

my stream flows inexorably

to its final destination,

and the trickle in between I call, ‘life’.

Every moment from its birth my stream is dying,

moment by moment,

inch by inch,

drop by drop.

“I am a stream,” thinks IM Graves. “A meandering stream

dreaming of becoming a raging river.”

As soon as I was born I started to create,

believing I was destined for immortality;

and at the same moment I knew that at every moment

I was dying.

Life is a mistake, meandering between two truths-

death and death.

So how do I reconcile these two forces,

this irony of existence-

knowing I am dying but wanting to create;

where will my courage to continue and

to struggle come from? thinks IM Graves.

“Oh this is a cruel and futile game.”

“Dig deeper within yourself, dig deeper,”

a voice thunders in his ear.

“And why do you complain before the sun has shone?”

“Look at me, pity me!” cries IM Graves,

realizing he is shouting at himself.

“Yourself?” thunders the voice again.

“You know nothing.

Look at you,

you worship the tears that sting your eyes.

you worship the blood that stains your hands

you worship the grime that cakes your soul.

Your eyes, your hands, your soul

are devoured, eaten by your cries of

‘Pity me, pity me.’

You demand miracles, proof that life is worthwhile,

yet all you have to do is open your eyes;

the miracles are all around you,

they are all around you, every second of every day;

they are yelling in your ear but you are deaf

they are in every thing you touch but you cannot feel

they are in your heart but instead

you focus on the madness dredging your soul

through moment by moment eternities of,

‘Pity me,

pity me.’ “

“Leave me alone,” cries IM Graves.

“Whatever you are, I don’t believe in you.

This world is too small for me,

I need something bigger, something satisfying.”

“You want something bigger,

yet you cannot conquers

the little that you have,

and your heart is never satisfied.

You need God!

And I,

I who have not conquered the Totality

cry for something smaller-

the Universe is too big for me,

and I need Man.”

IM Graves sits on the edge of his bed,

holding yesterday’s shirt

that will today be worn again.

God?

Is he hearing the voice of God?

IM Graves laughs to himself,

then aloud.

“This is a trick. I don’t believe in God!”

“Don’t believe in me,” the voice whispers.

“I will only break your heart;

I am your enemy

because I will not MAKE you happy-

you must do that for yourself.

I am fear and anger and frustration,

you must be the master of your own happiness.”

“Happiness?” thinks IM Graves, turning yesterday’s

socks inside out.

“Wouldn’t you think we humans would be

used to your torments by now?

No! We choose to suffer still.

Wouldn’t you think we humans would have

learned patience, faith and love by now?

No! We choose to be impatient,

unbelieving and angry… still.

We only seek to perfect our delusions

by better and better stories.”

Choked IM Graves,

“How can I believe in your Word,

when I cannot trust my own?”

“And that is my fault,” sighed the voice.

“I sat down one day and thought

I’d create children of fear

so they can behave themselves,

and I would tempt them to see if they obey

and learn to be happy.”

“What are you?” hissed IM Graves,

slipping on his beige leather sneakers.

“God or Devil? Who can tell you apart?

God is sometimes evil and Satan good

and Man is confused, suffering a wound he cannot heal

alone, a wound caked with the salt of

shame and fear and anger,

and Man runs from his shame and fear and anger

and has never stopped running.”

“All the struggles of Man are a mockery,”

snickers the voice. “As it is God and Satan

who fight each other-

and we are ONE-

It is all God fighting his inner self.

Why does God torment?

Because he himself is tormented.

Yes, I sometimes take the evil road,

but I cannot run as Man runs

and I look at Man running and cry,

‘Humans, I despise you, I despise you,

I despise you because you are me!’ “

“So you love Man in the abstract only and

not in the suffering of the human mind,

to that man is left to his own devices;

and Man is not of your image,

you are of ours.

You have clamped our minds

in a cage of obedience and…”

“Stop!” yells the voice. “You are the chosen people

and I bring you the hope of a great Messiah,

but first you must conquer pain,

because pain is knowledge.”

“Chosen people?” spits IM Graves,

knotting his tie.

“Promised land? Kingdom of heaven?

Messiah?

we are all the messiah,

you have given us the CURSE of hope in a Messiah

and hope breeds deception, not faith.

Hope is the opposite to faith.

Only faith breeds love, but you do not offer that.”

“I will not give happiness freely.

Why should I give something I myself do not possess?

Man should thank me for the fear I give to him

as it is the path,

the only path to true happiness.

Man must approach

the dividing line between flesh and soul,

then cross that line

into the struggle for happiness.

“I cross that line every second of every day,”

cries IM Graves slipping on his jacket.

“And in all the misery you provide

to teach me happiness, you deposit

tiny nuggets of paradise;

yet you own the entire mine.

There is no reason for me to have faith in you.”

“I am a dead fruitless tree-

Man’s life is IN the world,

it lives in the detail-

in all that is ordinary and

my inner turmoil is the world’s turmoil.

I certainly got myself in trouble

when I created this world,” grimaced the voice.

Man should thank me for everything

for the loneliness

for the hunger

for the suffering

for overcoming those is the path to true happiness.”

“Yes. I should thank God for bringing me to a place

I do not wish to explore,” thought IM Graves sarcastically

as he brushes his hair.

“For here I can learn. Oh pity me!”

“NO!!! Pity me,” cries the voice.

“Having to listen to you these past 10,000 years.

I will not change my plans,

nor will not forgive you.

you must be a human and take it.

I will tempt you

and you will either cry, “Pity me,”

or look into your soul and struggle to be happy,

and struggle hard IM Graves, for tomorrow

you will be happy?”

“Tomorrow? Tomorrow!

Always tomorrow

Always tomorrow

Always tomorrow

the promise of a new Jerusalem

always tomorrow.”

“This is a blood thirsty God,” thought IM Graves,

ready to face the working day.

“He is immortal because he does not fear death.

Man cannot be happy unless he first leans

over the edge of the precipice, and God warns

‘I am the precipice, better stay away.’ “

Both man and god will suffer

until each is fed up with their misery,

and then a little bit more.

Why does God torment Man?

Because he loves us.

“That’s not good enough”, cries IM Graves,

slamming shut the front door.