Get all 8 Igor Brezhnev releases available on Bandcamp and save 25%.
Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of nights since - volume five, before the sun rises, nights since - volume four, nights since - volume three, nights since - volume two, good morning, america. it's 2020., nights since - volume one, and Good Days & Bad Days.
1. |
about nights since
00:21
|
|||
|
This is the audio version of the fifth volume of the ‘nights since’ poetry project. It started on January 17th of 2019 and ended on January 14th of 2020. During this time I wrote a poem every night with the intent to document the emotional landscape of being without a home.
|
||||
2. |
||||
|
night one hundred thirty three
temptation to walk away,
to pull a lew on this poem,
welch it up brautigan mess,
unscrew the bottle kerouac,
call it all an enormous fuckup.
my heartstrings, over-stretched,
screech out of tune into the mic.
hear this, my sonder obligations,
this cacophony of i’m alive only
by what i have to do. no hopes,
just a stubborn refusal to give
in to gears grinding human
out of my ribs. holy shoes
and holy bags and some
holy something sunset
and living is no newer
now as it was before.
wake up and try to
smile. try again.
call it a love
boat. call it
temptation.
stronger.
portland, oregon / 5.29.2019
|
||||
3. |
||||
|
night one hundred thirty four
in foolishness
a fullness of potential,
unreasonable imagination
of what might be or could have.
and sometimes, my dear friend, it is.
it is, and once it is, it is harder to dispel
the fancy of midsummer's dreams in our
affections. lo, attractions manifested,
we then are such gorgeous fools!
metal cutting sparks in our eyes,
no stopping this machinery of
heart hungry arms that could
embrace a hundred times
a hundred times in span
of but one day or of
one hour or what
time fates give
for our foolish
bona fortune.
alas, we fools are
not so lucky in this
revelation. often times
the reason wins the round,
fools weighed and measured,
sparks put out and we go dream
of what could have been, at night,
if not for reason, if for just one word
that would catch on fire and grow
warmth we fools are fond of so.
portland, oregon / 5.30.2019
|
||||
4. |
||||
|
night one hundred thirty five
drink pain and eat joy.
nights, a buffet, come and go,
must've been hungry
for that lone after a show.
tell me how to ride this low.
portland, oregon / 5.31.2019
|
||||
5. |
||||
|
night one hundred thirty six
a yard full of people signing.
a stunning silence that is loud.
that is how my goodbyes ring out.
sometimes i think i want to leave at
the peak of witnessed beauty, empty
my everything, leave behind only poems,
hang them on streetlights, silent pages
for the summer winds. the world keeps
saying though: stay. even in this pain.
there is more. there is so much
more. i stay. one more night.
then one more. and more.
i will not tarry too much.
i just want you to know,
you are beautiful.
one more night.
portland, oregon / 6.1.2019
|
||||
6. |
||||
|
night one hundred thirty seven
today you
will wake up.
maybe. it’s a start.
get up. get dressed.
or you already were.
step out into this town.
one more pair of shoes,
or you’re going barefoot,
on the morning sidewalk.
you got somewhere to go.
go. stop. go. stop. go. stop.
there will be questions later.
you may have some answers.
someone will utter a greeting.
money might exchange hands
if you got some cash on you.
there will be a meal. maybe.
maybe there will be more
than one meal for you.
maybe today you will
be kissed. maybe
by an animal.
see, it’s all
a maybe.
but we
keep
at it
until
night.
maybe.
then fall
asleep again.
portland, oregon / 6.2.2019
|
||||
7. |
||||
|
night one hundred thirty eight
i would have you believe
that there were fireflies on
this night, that spiral galaxies
came down from dusk sky and
swirled themselves into that voice,
timbre reaching deep into the core,
taking residence there, its pulse
mingled helix with heartbeats,
i'd have you believe there
was only this ever now
burning bright, a fire
i would wade into
slow and steady,
smoke of me
rising above,
palimpsest
offering,
write more
on these pages.
something. anything.
everything or directions
to stars that call you a home,
so that letters of me could rise
there in their thirst for encore.
portland, oregon / 6.3.2019
|
||||
8. |
||||
|
night one hundred thirty nine
thank the flames
and thank the birds.
i forget i once sat under
a tree, barefoot and light,
before i took up the weight
again, now to willingly carry.
i forget my fingers traced old
on ancient waters, forget how
my palms held soothing. forget.
you remind me. how to leave
the cement, the electric, for
waterfalls and meadows.
how my blood is ocean,
how my breath is wind,
how my eyes are light,
how yours are same.
i've learned not to
question rivers.
just let it be.
let it flow
where it wills,
don't think too
much on what it
all means. thank
birds and flames,
and thank you.
portland, oregon / 6.4.2019
|
||||
9. |
night one hundred forty
02:03
|
|||
|
night one hundred forty
once i wrote this one poem
about a song about a pinecone,
fit campfires to syllables, forests
to lines, tied it all with heartstings,
a tiny anthem that makes hope
resurrect, moving boulders
from mouths of caves. so.
when i’m given a pinecone
to write from… guess what…
i’ll write about city streets. how
they are boulders we move together
with our mingled exhales. how we walk
on them acrobatic, leaping above the old
electric poles, over the heavy wires pulsing
with flow much like our hands, connected.
us. an anthem. an evolution. holding this
world, our eyes gigawatts brighter
beam through our exhaustion
into clouds. our time-lapse,
night in and night out,
cinematic, orchestral
score rising, and
there’s nowhere
i’d rather be, see,
i don’t know why, but,
we in this gentle humanity,
can create stories with just
a popsicle stick or pinecone,
fold our nights into sentences,
light up cities a tender revolution,
even if we dance peacock spider,
showing our colors to darkness
of late nights, we’re just saying,
this is a story of how we can
now be stars for each other,
always an anthem of hope.
portland, oregon / 6.5.2019
|
||||
10. |
||||
|
night one hundred forty one
after a while, these nights blend
together, flashes of similar places,
similar moods, similar circumstances.
there, by my feet, is a curled-up cat,
outside—a night rain, arriving again.
sleep beckons, eyes fade, quietly
i murmur of green and of blue,
a private dream under moon.
portland, oregon / 6.6.2019
|
||||
11. |
||||
|
night one hundred forty two
stages, pages, all a blur.
looked in the mirror and saw
eyes that would leave all of this.
how i drive them to look for hope.
how merciless am i to keep burning
city lights into tired retinas, saying
"keep seeing, do not look away"
the cat drops onto my chest,
purrs extra oomph into my
heart, not abstract, but
that honest: "you are
the warmest body
i can find here.
so you are it.
let's rest."
portland, oregon / 6.7.2019
|
||||
12. |
||||
|
night one hundred forty three
quakes the earth of me
for the wind of voices twined,
for the horizon, where clouds
and mountains are two and one.
poetry, a feather, of both,
attraction elemental,
floating between. days,
years—this mystery of our
time folding, what our hands
will fashion with this paper leaf,
what origami forms shall emerge
from this shared present, this glory
now, a conversation following moon's
path. setting, rising. what lush forests
await us, moss of me and sky of you,
what water should capture our echo,
what dew shall quench our thirsts,
what spider web shall catch these
dreams sent forth like stars send
light. illuminated we are just so,
and i wonder, wonder, wonder
on this night. i'll gladly give
my sleep for magic such
as this. sleep tender,
then arise, fierce,
gentle wonder.
portland, oregon / 6.8.2019
|
||||
13. |
||||
|
night one hundred forty four
a gross of nights upon
my shoulders, angels, devils
charley-horsed with strain of time.
i find small pleasures here, there,
with life besotted, enamored by
the ineffable contained within
each sunset, yet at midnight
the spectres of tomorrow
haunt me in my solitude,
a whisper of the easy,
while my fingers slip
from day's edge,
ghost of home
is neverwhere,
neverwhen.
portland, oregon / 6.9.2019
|
||||
14. |
||||
|
night one hundred forty five
tonight i lost my
first ever thumb war,
my other fingers i feel
won the peace of being
held human, grasped for
a while like they've meant
something, maybe they do,
maybe they don't. felt good
either way. see, i am moonlit
and poetry-filled, poured out,
i wanted to weep. i still might.
tears rising from my worn feet,
swirling in the pit of my buddha
belly, stuck in my throat, a geyser,
then waterfall down my laughlines
for everything. every night turned
hot liquid, brine truth of me. most
want the desert of pretty dry lies.
not i. not my eyes. empty me out.
take all that i am for paint, make
a mural all ladybugs, butterflies
and wishes. i'm sorry i'm edges
when the world seems to want
everything to be mostly alright
i'm sorry i'm ledges i haven't
jumped from yet. i'm trying.
i'm trying to believe in you.
all of you. a little bit in me.
see, it's hard to believe in
mirrors when you know
how they are made.
i will try anyway.
portland, oregon / 6.10.2019
|
||||
15. |
||||
|
night one hundred forty six
when i die on playgrounds
holy with the best intentions,
amidst a supper of an apricot,
pretend it was a poem that you
wrote for me, pretend my voicebox
is wound music carnival, sweaty hot
and rumbling echo, that it is with you
at the wake. maybe don't wait, pretend
i am already dead, pretend that it was
one of those theater deaths, believe
the stage, believe the curtain, clap
your hands and stomp your feet,
expect the actor bow gratitude,
say, "damn, i wrote this so well"
say, "i said every little thing to
you i ever wanted just now in
the poem, eloquence direct."
and i will say—can you hear
my voice inside your head,
just there—"you wrote it
well, the culmination was
exquisite, so delicate
were your fingers on
the pen." then. then,
my dearest friend,
there will be silence.
you know, the kind we
have not shared, a light
blanket on one cold summer
evening, laid on extended mingled
feet, easy silence, the kind that reads
the eyes and passes you the cup of tea.
the silence that glances at the lake, each
other, and nods approval of everything,
relaxed, leaning back in travel chairs,
itself a poem, itself a jasmine music,
that is my gift for you, this silence,
i wrote it for you, hummingbirds
and sunflowers, i'm good at
that, this not saying thing,
this being a bedside
book to read on any open
page, sometime much later.
and if you ever need to summon
ghost of me, put cherries on
the windowsill of a forest
cabin, unsay my name,
three times, throw
a pinecone in
campfire.
unsay my
name again.
there i always
shall be, a poem
that you wrote.
portland, oregon / 6.11.2019
|
||||
16. |
||||
|
night one hundred forty seven
my vocal cords all tangled up:
too many conversations, too many
poems in too many nights. i reach for
cottoncandied sky, forget-me-not and
lilac, like the arms of streetlight children
reach for it, eye-hungry for the sweet,
but only for a moment. what could i
give this sky but jasmine petals
i haven't picked. what could i
say with my lost voice just
now that sky would want
to hear. it hears much:
all coy prayers and
all mad screams,
every little why,
every please.
so i'm silent,
listening to sky.
mayhap the sky too
is reaching and wanting
for sweat and salt, for a hand.
mayhap it too just lost its voice.
portland, oregon / 6.12.2019
|
||||
17. |
||||
|
night one hundred forty eight
how bright the eyes,
evolutionary! not to revolve,
but curve toward the possibility,
that expanse, where galaxies reside.
luminance and gravity of our stars,
know, i will craft same number
of odes and sonnets to your
light as i did to night itself
or moon or any other
celestial abode,
or many more,
so long as i'm
earthbound.
be i a ghost,
i still would write
you letters, as only
a ghost can compose:
in wind cursive on tallest
grass or cloud streak on sky,
i have no doubt you would know
my envelopes from any other, same
as i would know one of yours delivered
in some mysterious ways. how glad i am
for our circumstance, for word exchange,
for how this is a garden and how we play
in its infinity excited for the seeds to
sprout, unhurried to pluck a fruit in
harvest, for how bold we are in
our expression, how unafraid
of our evolution, how reluctant
our partings, yet safe, as though
reunion has been assured somehow.
i am glad of this and more. three hours
of sleep ahead of me and i keep asking
for more time of this night to add more
lines that mark a moment as clear as
our smiles mark our eyes these days,
asking, confident ability in our voice,
what treasures will we give the world?
portland, oregon / 6.13.2019
|
||||
18. |
||||
|
night one hundred forty nine
we offer the sun
to one another freely
in the darkest nights.
make it a celebration,
you're not alone in this storm.
portland, oregon / 6.14.2019
|
||||
19. |
night one hundred fifty
01:48
|
|||
|
night one hundred fifty
a waterfall of little red hearts
on the screen of my phone and i'm
a full river now. it is a private moment,
but what is poetry but my tender secrets
spilled on the white. i am columbia and
colorado, i am mississippi and hudson,
my current's a wild thing, a soft thing,
a thing of muscle with chambers,
a rhythmic electric morse code,
a violin of silver moon strings,
if i am a river then you are
a sea, my water rushing
to the delta, missing
you, green to blue,
truth of the river
is: it will be the sea.
even if it takes miles
of earth, even if it gets
there by air, evaporated,
condensed in clouds, rain
over the vastness of ocean,
even then. our water is whole.
our water is the only holy water
then for this startled benediction
of maybe, a blessing of unknown,
a tu-me-manques puzzle we solve
daily, pieces of us—butterfly wings,
see how we fit in the sky, see how
our voices do not want to part,
isn't that the most beautiful
part of a heart waterfall?
portland, oregon / 6.15.2019
|
||||
20. |
||||
|
night one hundred fifty one
you pour dreams,
sweetest liquor, into
my ears, your dreams,
yet my essence sees its
reflection manifold in them,
these nights in this become,
not since, but striving toward,
i take in every laughline, every
midnight shadow on your face,
every glint of eyes and wonder
what alchemy, what moonhowl,
ignited this present into being,
how under the infinity of stars
in infinite encounters of souls,
have we entangled ourselves
in these few nights. mayhap,
my demons will win the prize
and i won't see manifestation
of these splendid visions,
mayhap, i too could tell
a dream to you where
you are in it. mayhap,
for once the world
will not be cruel.
but even if i will
meet my end,
know this, i'm
a believer now
in your dreams,
i saw tomorrow,
you made it there,
stacks of books and
every poem has found
its page, sometimes it's
harder to meet myself in
that unpromised land, but
what joy would be to hold
your hand and say: see,
the turquoise of skies
saw your dreams live,
and i am still here.
we are still here.
portland, oregon / 6.16.2019
|
||||
21. |
||||
|
night one hundred fifty two
a letter to the morning.
hi. hello. i write to you from
under a sequoia tree. i haven’t
kept you up tonight with late stories,
my thoughts though dwelled on your
dreams. as expected, i’ve missed you.
i hope you got to write. the world is still
full of humanity—tragedy and lightness,
a quilt of patches, all a tangled mess,
tears and laughter—all under luna’s
gaze, but you already know that.
the solstice is upon us soon.
that too you knew. today
was jasmine. today
was jasmine
laughter.
today was
summer blues.
did you look up?
did you see the sky?
i did. felt large. felt small.
its blue descended into me,
much like you do. simply.
without much fanfare.
yet somehow more
present than any
other vital force.
this is a quiet letter,
a bookshop armchair,
a chime of an old clock,
a spoon of honey dripping
into tea, unrushed, a viscous
sweetness. a letter that falls
asleep holding hands, then
dreams well past midnight,
wakes up and smiles.
goes back to sleep.
still holding hands.
portland, oregon / 6.17.2019
|
||||
22. |
||||
|
night one hundred fifty three
tonight i'm dim and empty,
i'm a late night highway left behind.
it's quiet and air doesn't seem to move.
the morning will only bring my obligations,
self-imposed, a cure for a death wish,
i wish i could conjure hope for you
this night, but none is left in my
bones, i wish i could sing you
love, but my skin is parched
and my voice is cracked.
all i can do is flee to
dreams, start over
in the morning.
portland, oregon / 6.18.2019
|
||||
23. |
||||
|
night one hundred fifty four
my decades pass
and the young still dull
death with drink and jasmine
is still summer sweet. saxophone
still spells sex in dim lit rooms, poets
still doubt their words but say them
anyway, for those words i'm glad.
love still is a force stupefying
dynamos of hearts, roses
are still dropping petals,
wind still from time to
time plays its games
with those petals.
much does
change.
streets
and fashions.
then some things
are seemingly eternal.
the way a person can till
my fallow ground and plant
themselves, and suddenly this
field was never empty, always has
borne these tall blue grasses swayed
hypnotic. though with age comes
the knowledge of droughts and
pillaging marauders trampling
beauty. so i revel in missing
you. there is this tender
of, without prompt,
saying your name
as a nightly blessing,
to my mind a better prayer
than to any of the gods, this
affirmation of existence. this
soft wow. how lucky am i
that time's wind still
plays with me,
a lost petal.
portland, oregon / 6.19.2019
|
||||
24. |
||||
|
night one hundred fifty five
i huddle by a fire.
my words are simple.
maybe that is well. well
to reduce it all to simple
words. a charcoal sketch,
not a grand old oil painting.
tears—it was the smoke.
a lie, of course, but this
lie we learn so early on.
one side of me is cold.
the fire crackles. one
too many cups of
coffee black.
i still order
coffee.
cigarettes,
chained a fence,
my fix of dopamine.
instead of touch.
lights, amber,
turquoise
and red,
above.
thoughts
drift from
past to past,
wonder future.
ponder money.
remember lovers.
stumble on some
street noise, on
the next table's
conversation.
these complex
systems of human
interaction are beyond
my narrowed comprehension.
sip of coffee. drag of smoke.
another minute burned.
attempt to imagine
another future.
failed. more
minutes
burn.
my lines
meander.
coals are
orange now.
looking for
a small joy,
when breath
is not enough.
time stretches,
elastic catapult,
with me its stone.
i know where i will
sleep and that is well.
i know too what i will
do in days to come.
i cling to knowing.
my minutes burn.
i hope you are
warm. see, i
still hope.
portland, oregon / 6.20.2019
|
||||
25. |
||||
|
night one hundred fifty six
two past midnight.
this world is in spin.
things keep piling up.
i can lift a lot, but this...
this weight buckles my
knees. i'll put it down
and sleep. i wonder
if i can pick it back
up when the sun
rises tomorrow.
i did yesterday.
son of none.
grandson
of dead.
my ties
are thin,
thinning,
buckle or
float away.
i'm not good
at goodbyes.
i haven't said
enough words
of "love", enough
of "stay", enough of
"until the ends of the
world", i haven't heard
enough of those words.
it's just the way this ball
spins. it doesn't get tired.
it spins and spins and spins
night after day. concentration
camps again. spin. men with
someone else's blood on
their tongues again. spin.
let them eat cake again.
spin. small things pile
up and the world, it
spins under my feet.
then the circumstance
will punch me in the gut,
again. again. again. again.
why do i keep getting up?
am i that sort of stupid?
yes, ma'am. yes i am.
the kind of stupid
that tried to give
up, failed and
just keeps
spinning.
the kind that
still doesn't want
to let go of a hand when
saying goodbye. remember
i am not very good at that.
i am just trying to get
better at saying
"i love you."
"hold my hand."
and "stay.
until the ends
of this spinning
mad world"
portland, oregon / 6.21.2019
|
||||
26. |
||||
|
night one hundred fifty seven
after m. for m.
from the daily daze
filled with foiled plans,
iced by threats of violence,
sweat and dirt on my hands,
i arrive. i arrive. i arrive to night.
i am an arrow ignited—water pyre.
i am a fire. i am soil. i am source-ry.
hear me. i catch cadence and rhythm.
she turns me on a poetic machine,
voice magnetic energy. soaring
above, on these given wings.
reminded of my magic now.
stand in my humanity.
rise in her artistry.
she is seaborn.
i am the shore.
my eyes alight,
beaming words,
streaming hope,
clarity of gravity,
verbal electricity,
summoned now,
no matter, how.
feel my strength,
feel my roots deep
in this pacific ground.
my eleven to your five.
our three. sing harmony.
my determination to your
sublimation, make it loud,
sing in harmony. take turns,
make new forms, confidence
and trust—let us shine, let us
drip brine, let us dance, let us
lead, let us love, let us take
flight, let us hurricane, let
us build new lighthouses,
let us make our destiny.
softer now. gentler now.
stronger now. loving
now. present now.
we are the how.
portland, oregon / 6.22.2019
|
||||
27. |
||||
|
night one hundred fifty eight
great sequoia tree.
dwell under it. in its shade.
this is well and good.
some nights are for that rare rest.
to wake up late and start slow.
portland, oregon / 6.23.2019
|
||||
28. |
||||
|
night one hundred fifty nine
made a wish upon
a burning meteor streak.
falling seems so bright.
would you wish upon my light
when i too let go of sky.
portland, oregon / 6.24.2019
|
||||
29. |
night one hundred sixty
01:54
|
|||
|
night one hundred sixty
things that cut deep.
a serrated edge of futility
on a blunt object of no rest.
years. years cut the deepest
lines. human patterns without
a surprise. lately, i want a drink.
that absolution of numbness.
pour alcohol on bloody cuts.
that incoherent loneliness
that holds up no mirrors.
that fire that burns all,
good and worst and
four letter words.
lately. i still hold on.
convince myself that
sanity is a precious boon.
make-believe a purpose.
act as though it is real.
as if i have not seen
the human fractal
unfold so similar
to ones before,
i could become
a fortune teller.
if i was an equation
on a blackboard surface,
i'd erase me, call it unsolvable.
marvel at the wet chalk scent on
a dirty rag of my choices, remember
that variables are not constants, math
my way out of my chemistry, leave
complexities of my smoke behind,
load all intangibles into a hearse,
call for a jazz band procession.
then you would know that all
my tangents were french
curves, all eschering me
into my own hands.
portland, oregon / 6.25.2019
|
||||
30. |
||||
|
night one hundred sixty one
yesterday
i tore a shoelace
in half. pulled on it
too many times. maybe
it was too tense for too long.
shoes seem to be a simile for
me. their torn, their holy ends.
i'm sure the laws of physics have
good reasons for it. put a half in my
pocket and the rest back on the shoe.
wear myself until i break, keep going
barefoot, if i must. or maybe rest.
restless though i saw a kachina
ring last night with a single
missing stone on one leg.
universe has a sense of
humor, indeed. today
there is a summer
thunderstorm
above this
town.
purple
church
was nigh
empty: poet,
howl and winter,
rhythm and reverend.
how we are people and
also strange archetypes.
a stranger come and gone.
twenty second moments sent
to bring part of your spirit here.
what sings this town? is it green?
all those trees above the concrete?
is it the morning rainbow—dewdrops
on lilies of the valley? is it traffic lights
at night? drunk man with shoes holier
than mine? what sings me into night?
is it you, words and eyes, so bright?
are you an ocean? are you singing?
how presumptuous of me to ask
if i am a song. don't those just
come along with breath and
then fade out unless there
is an effort, a will to sing?
this book is for you, my
friend, it's nearing its
end. the fifth book.
how do patterns
occur in chaos?
how do we
find each
other in
this random?
what futures do
we make from our
discovery, i wonder?
tell me, poet, what magic
was employed and to what
end? tell me in a dream—that
is what we are supposed to say,
poetic souls—yes, in a dream.
i will be dreaming. good
night. dream well.
portland, oregon / 6.26.2019
|
||||
31. |
||||
|
night one hundred sixty two
if i am magic, then
i am the lonely magic,
the empty park bench in
the forgotten small city park,
musician playing empty room,
the plastic bag floating above
the subway vents, the single
shoe unfound in the street,
the cigarette half-smoked
in the week-full ashtray.
the flinched face upon
random gentle touch.
if i am magic, then
i am the tired magic,
the sigh escaping time,
faded stripes of crossings,
two-pizza-slices midnight for
one just before the closing time,
broom and dishwasher solos
for 80s forgotten music hits.
the aching ankles free of
shoes. the miracle of
we made it through
this fuck-up day.
if i am magic, then,
i am the hopeful magic,
the tomorrow-is-another-day
refrain, the fall-in-love-anyway
staccato despite past pain,
a spell of let-us-try-again,
if i am magic, then you
are magic too, so tell
me which kind of
magic are you?
portland, oregon / 6.27.2019
|
||||
32. |
||||
|
night one hundred sixty three
dear friend,
the boulders of
our days are still
there to push or roll
even if they are pebbles
or we are giants. at night
our rocks lay still. they look
in their repose so unimportant.
once i asked the void: what else
is love? void echoes ever since that
time. given millions of nights i would
not provide a fraction of an answer.
though i had some time to hear it,
few petals of a truth i glimpsed.
first, love simply lives, needs
not a mirror. second, love
loves to listen wholly—
what could be more
important than
love's story.
third. it never
dies. love sleeps,
that much we know,
but if it died it never was.
alive love is always friend.
fourth. cruelty can ice love
for longer than human bodies
last. so how do you know if you
are indeed with love? you want to
know everything love is without any
abbreviation. every time love speaks
your busy heart hushes in attention.
your love's future is more dear than
your own and if it walks another
path, one you are not walking,
you bring your love's name
with you to the very end,
say: "you made it here
too, see this beauty."
fifth. remember those
boulders we left resting?
with love they are but sand
that measures how long you
got to know love, how long love
got to know you. love doesn't ask
if you are in love, that's apparent,
though love tells you "i love you"
as though it is a constellation
by which you find your way
back to your love from
the farthest shores.
now see how petals
fall, how wind will take
them now, glide them over
streetlights, land them in the river.
how the flower grew through concrete.
how it has roots i know not. how late
night makes petal readers bold.
you, my friend, know flowers
far better than i do, so i pray
to you, one day tell me:
what else is love
to you?
portland, oregon / 6.28.2019
|
||||
33. |
||||
|
night one hundred sixty four
most of my time
these days i build stages.
literally and metaphorically.
put sandbags down on rocks,
place plywood wrapped in black
on top, make a place for someone
to say their words or play music.
if a home is where you put most
effort, then stage must be home.
at night i write. my words come
crooked, tired birds, struggling
to be awake, but no less true.
the memory of a certain smile,
the memory of ferns, the dog
that happily ran after the ball,
the memory of candid words,
sustains me more than bread,
for that i am thankful. see, it
isn't a wish for some future,
though aren't we all wishes
of a tender understanding,
aren't we all mismatched
fantasies of ever-afters?
it is a knowing of good
past, those moments
that say live a little
longer. do a little
more. try more.
not for yourself,
but for another.
my friend, i miss
the way we burst
out into laughter if
our eyes meet just
a little longer than a
second, the way i'm
a most willing captive
of your voice and story.
i miss this our almost too.
it's late and i am adrift. you
ask me for a prompt. i write
these nights. take them. build
or erase. speak fantasy or truth.
this is your book as much as mine,
your ocean, your moon and your tide.
if words are all i have then please
accept the gift of words, this
mix-tape of emotions, this
strange, weird present.
good night and good
morning, my friend.
good morning.
and good
night.
portland, oregon / 6.29.2019
|
||||
34. |
||||
|
night one hundred sixty five
one for the fern.
two for the serpent.
three for the universe,
she, speaks with many
subtle signs. say ancient,
say shedding skin, say now,
say new. say reach for our sky.
say we are mystery, say we are,
say river coils, say mountains, say
ocean, say forest, say sun and star,
say fire. say we are fire. say we are.
let silence like the morning fog say
salt and water. listen. listen. listen.
every gentle susurration rising,
every murmur of our hearts,
every sigh and every breath,
every quiet trill of birdsong.
listen still. still listen. still.
my dear friend, we are.
we share air, we
walk this labyrinth,
with each circuit we are
closer to the center, stand
there, look up, see the clouds
dance. this chant, this incantation
iridescent, this dedication to our
intense intention dances too.
weave wonder into words,
my friend, your rhythm,
a spell onto this night.
a tender evolution,
your psychic flow.
one for the fern,
two for the serpent,
three for the universe.
i see you. i hear you.
i believe in you.
portland, oregon / 6.30.2019
|
||||
Igor Brezhnev Portland, Oregon
Igor Brezhnev is a poet, an author and an artist, amongst his other sins. He has first-hand experience with confronting depression, homelessness, poverty, and xenophobia, as well as more common ailments like heartbreak and spilled coffee. Igor has authored three books: the book of possibilities (2012), dearest void (2016) and america is a dry cookie and other love stories (2018). ... more
Igor Brezhnev recommends:
I've had the great pleasure to work with Ken on releasing his first spoken word poetry album. Quiver is a tender poetic journey that I have thoroughly enjoyed! I hope you will enjoy too!
go to album
Red O'Hare's poetry explores the aftermath of domestic violence, tragedy, and generational trauma. She recently recorded a collection of poetry at Shady Pines Studio, called 'Seaglass Strange,'
go to albumIf you like Igor Brezhnev, you may also like:
Fodder
by Douglas Kearney & Val Jeanty
Poet Douglas Kearney and composer/producer/drummer Val Jeanty link up for a a compelling LP that feels like the written word come to life.
go to album
Playing with Esu / Where will Ogun Live
by Neo Griot & The Afrocentric Prince
featured on Bandcamp Radio Jan 25, 2022
go to album
The Japanese Rimbaud
by Mikado Koko * o g i v e
Mikado Koko blends glitchy ambient with excerpts of poems from the late Japanese experimental poet Chuya Nakahara.
go to album
We Must Be Sacred
by The Last Poets
featured on Bandcamp Radio Oct 23, 2018
go to album
