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. |
night one
01:55
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night one
day’s impressions into my mind unfold.
how there is an empty chair in front of me
and how i like people making small noises,
how a young woman writes in the notebook
letters large and rounded
settling on lines
of the paper intended.
i think of rivers.
headlights of oncoming traffic
move past a steady stream
i think of rivers.
the radio room and people
filing in from midnight.
i think of rivers.
small shed next to a thai food cart
behind a strip club.
we are waiting for fried rice.
i think of rivers.
i gave up the taste of russian words
its cult-of-might, its learn-your-place
its don’t-you-respect-me drink
shoved down my throat hot.
i think of rivers.
falling asleep on a couch,
dog scent in the blanket that is my pillow.
only four hours of sleep ahead.
words piling up chaotic.
i jot them down then drift.
i think of rivers.
morning. this house doesn’t know me.
i wonder if it knows what it swallowed whole.
it is eight in the morning
and i say goodbye
to the house and
to the dog.
i think of rivers.
portland, oregon / 1.18.2019
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2. |
night two
00:32
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night two
in the morning i will think:
i have never been to camas, washington before.
i have now.
tonight i sleep
by a lit fireplace
in a different state
poetry on my mind
grateful for grace.
suggested town motto for camas:
“the birds are louder here.”
camas, washington / 1.19.2019
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3. |
night three
00:36
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night three
back sinking into a couch,
sound of clothes in a dryer,
full belly and all the emotions
swirling, what will i dream
on this night. where will
i end up tomorrow. be
praised friends and
the land they walk
and the next day.
an aside. does
one ever stop
loving and
does it
ever
...
gresham, oregon / 1.20.2019
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4. |
night four
00:18
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night four
same couch.
head crowned
with ache. tired.
feathers and wings.
there is probably
more.
gresham, oregon / 1.21.2019
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5. |
night five
00:40
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night five
this is a very large bed.
and i am so used to narrow.
and i am on the edge and
there is so much space.
i am washed clean and
the lights are so soft,
they like water wear
my hardness round
seaglass as though
it was always that,
forgetting the kiln,
forgetting shard,
forgetting trash,
being a thing
you would
pick up to
keep for
a while.
portland, oregon / 1.22.2019
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6. |
night six
00:59
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night six
missing michaelene
it is only the second night
in this haven where a tree line
reflects zen in the house mirror,
where a silver cat purrs comfort,
as though it has always been that,
deep in my belly is grief for another
death somewhere in the state of utah,
we never saw each other, we wrote
letters, or, rather emails, but how
i wish they were letters in ink,
something i could hold now.
how i wish we could have
more time to exchange
words, syllable tamer.
the expected death
is still too sudden
and age is not a
good enough
excuse for
an abrupt
silence.
portland, oregon / 1.23.2019
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7. |
night seven
01:18
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night seven
bars are taste of irony
in the back of my throat,
here i am fifteen-some years,
sober with a couple slip-ups,
later, sips of bitter coffee,
still closing down a bar,
still in the loud of it,
still drowning life,
poems—shots
not down, but
out—in a bar,
still some
sort of
drunk,
just call
it a poet,
still going
back to beds
that i do not own,
still looking for my
own eyes in crowds,
it’s coffee that’s bitter,
not me, maybe being so
close to my personal devil
is a reminder i got something
to sell at the crossroads, some
intangible value that makes it ok
to keep waking up after closing
another watering hole, saying
“thanks, tip your bartender,
and good night to you all.”
portland, oregon / 1.24.2019
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8. |
night eight
01:19
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night eight
i am a king of no land, i am,
before you jump to conclusions:
i was crowned by a real princess—
she had a tiara with ruby jewels and
a real princess red dress and matching
red socks, doesn’t get any more royal
than that, she promised she would
protect me, turned me to a castle
with a single word and asked if
she could have a hug. now
you know my kingship is,
in fact, real, i am a castle,
i am a king of no land,
and somewhere
there’s a princess
who will protect you
gift you stolen flowers
and give you kingdoms
just like that and you will
believe every word she says
just because she believes in
those words, believes in her
magic, believes in herself,
believes in things most
of us chose to forget.
portland, oregon / 1.25.2019
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9. |
night nine
00:36
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night nine
if we were to trust the tales,
it took seven days to make
a universe worthwhile,
another took nine
days to drink
wisdom
from a
well,
hanging
upside down.
i am, on the ninth
night, glad for a bed
and well wishes, maybe
that is some sort of wisdom,
maybe eleven is a better number
for that sort of foolishness to occur.
portland, oregon / 1.26.2019
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10. |
night ten
00:25
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night ten
it is still music
it is still poetry
it is still beauty
it is still friends
that is forward
movement to
a tomorrow.
anything
less is
not.
portland, oregon / 1.27.2019
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11. |
night eleven
01:45
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night eleven
cold feet, cold hands,
i could look for meaning
in that, for a sly metaphor.
headache pulses in temples,
tiny demons playing ping-pong,
this thought makes it more tolerable.
i’m eating cold fruit and corn chips—
is it a call back to cold appendages?
what makes a jumble of sentences
a poem, what would make it sing
eleven to you, this parallel prime
digit, the sticks, the one after,
the let’s-find-meaning-of-it
together, the it’s-been-
eleven-nights since
i left the house
of stones.
we’ll find out
but likely when
headache subsides,
when we don’t require
meaning to mean something
beyond the comforting warmth
and i have made it through the day
mostly intact and with a kind intention,
this poem is an awkward way to tell you:
thank you, i appreciate your beings,
and may your demons rest from
their games once in a while,
may you rest and make it
to the twelfth night too.
and to all the poets:
it’s eleven:eleven
in an odd way-
make a wish
make it
a good
one.
portland, oregon / 1.28.2019
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12. |
night twelve
00:49
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night twelve
we’ll strive to please
you every day, foolish
phrase, but what of it?
as good an end as start
and if music be the food,
then we certainly are fed.
and nothing changed—rain,
it still rains on every day,
well, almost, every day,
and we, we are fools,
still and always fools,
regal dancing fools,
our honor badges—
the jester’s caps
tintinnabulate
to our lives’
dances.
portland, oregon / 1.29.2019
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13. |
night thirteen
02:02
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night thirteen
i took a day for myself,
shuffled it out of a deck
like a has-been magician,
this is your card—is it not,
woke up late and marched
myself to a restaurant, sleep
still dry in my eyes. got coffee
and a giant pancake with a side
of grits, i felt so god-damn-country,
like america finally made home in my
bones, like i-am-one-of-you, spangled
and starred right here at the bar, ma’am,
thank you, that was the most delicious
meal in my life. i walked up the mount,
crosses left behind in the foothills,
looked up at this blinding sun
through the trees, felt small,
a child i forgot ever lived.
met a beautiful friend,
watched dogs greet
everything eager,
felt wind making
home in me,
splendor
of it all,
resting,
poverty
on a back
burner low,
sauntering—
dearest walt—
sauntering down
the carmall street,
la tienda mexicana
making a mark in my
mind—i’ve been there
before, i should return,
talked poetry with a poet,
damn you are good at that
word entanglement artcraft,
sudden stranger, familiar now.
i can sleep now. i can sleep.
i guess that’s what they
call self-care these
days, i guess,
i can learn
that art.
portland, oregon / 1.30.2019
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14. |
night fourteen
01:31
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night fourteen
a hop and a skip and a jump
from the frog to the nest,
a rotund rambler roams.
i like the word rotund,
it’s so architectural,
a house that will
feed everyone,
so sky-shelter,
so cavernous,
so cauldron
steaming.
that was, as
they say, a tale
before the fairytale
fairs faint fantasy’s flight.
tonight, i dine like the royal,
thanks to a couple of bards,
two slices and a can of fizzy,
i’ve even enough for a carriage
of a tri-met bus. watch out world!
i got riches to carry me clean through
the mystical magical land of tomorrow!
day after tomorrow does not yet exist,
on the bus there’s laughter from belly
up risen and a man sleeping nested
into his livelihood bags, aren’t we
all some sort of royalty, queens
and kings of i made it through
all of the days afore midnight,
the world has got nothing
on us, risen yesterday
onto this day and
onto the next.
portland, oregon / 1.31.2019
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15. |
night fifteen
00:59
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night fifteen
i’m again watching
people file into the radio room.
k-boo, k-boom, k-b-o-o.
from midnight or a while after.
these are my people.
showing up.
some of this i will say into the mic.
some i will add many nights after.
our lighthouse is now dark.
off the air.
dearest laedi,
like the one from the lake,
you gave us our swords, our voice,
thank you for the place
where we could say our truths.
it has been two weeks.
i survived.
portland, oregon / 2.1.2019 & 2.19.2019
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16. |
night sixteen
01:20
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night sixteen
catching patterns
numbers twirl waltz
on clocks pairing up,
feeling my gravity’s pull
eyelids drooping wet silk,
fullness of all conversations
blooms camellia in my winter,
deep pink on the darkest green,
can this poem take flower shape,
where in the world is…, complete
this question, i am drifting slow
why do we come to mountains,
our hours have never synced,
why do we stare at the moon,
aren’t we too reflected light,
why do we court the ocean,
is our own depth too dark,
if it is just a muscle knot,
why do we burn so well,
as though this burning
would light up the sky
why, my friend, why.
i will sleep on that.
sixteenth night.
questioning.
waking.
portland, oregon / 2.2.2019
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17. |
night seventeen
00:53
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night seventeen
hear a lily’s voice
rising, falling, traveling.
do flowers sing too?
i may be poor, but how poor
are those that do not listen.
a strange bird singing,
outside is growing colder.
there is warmth in song.
music is well worth travel
it keeps you warm in silence.
seventeen nights now,
pockets are getting lighter,
thoughts grow heavier.
what tethers me to the world
but what i can give to it.
portland, oregon / 2.3.2019
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18. |
night eighteen
01:10
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night eighteen
knowing all of my devils,
being on the first-name basis
with all of my personal demons,
saying “good morning, and in case
i don’t see ya, good afternoon, good
evening, and good night”—ya got to be
polite when you have been through all we
have been through together—somehow,
we are the show that must go on, and
on, and on, i keep saying, no, thank
you, i’ll pass on that one for today,
ask me again in several months,
look at you, you’ve gotten big,
i remember when you just
started haunting dreams,
oh my, that’s beautiful,
tell me all about your
new circle of hell,
tell me what do
you have in
store for
us now.
portland, oregon / 2.4.2019
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19. |
night nineteen
02:18
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night nineteen
settling under blankets,
resting my head on pillows,
tiny heater whirring, trying its
best to stave off granpaw frost.
lucky are we who have blankets.
out there the snow falls in spirals
to melt on the asphalt under moving
cars, writing the next big book no one
will get to read, i’m not sure if it is a book
of the dead or a book of life, but by the way
it swirls it is quite possibly both or neither.
i’m sorry it is not a more definitive answer,
i am yet to decipher its words descending.
tonight, i smoked cigarettes on the porch,
i heard poems about skin, and sadness,
and what to do on the coast of maine,
songs about loves and telephones,
songs without words, somehow,
still about loves, telephones
not as explicitly stated
by fading notes.
lucky are we
who sing
of loves.
tonight,
i’ve read
my words,
i am much
like the snow
twirling down
from whatever
sky that’s made
me a water clump
that i am, whatever
fall that i will become.
look, it’s nineteenth eve,
look how everything’s bright,
this snow has given us pages,
to write on with our loving steps
how our hearts are like the tiny
heaters whirring, trying hard
to warm us against that
coming good night.
portland, oregon / 2.5.2019
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20. |
night twenty
01:32
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night twenty
see, a score of nights
every one of those ended
with words or began,
in time after the sun set,
before i yielded to tired.
i try to squeeze life
into familiar line form,
i should be asleep,
but how stubborn i still am,
counting syllables at two.
this night was of ice,
the snow has melted and froze.
slick roads and walkways.
groundhog day is still showing
at the movie theater.
don’t you sometimes wish
you could just go, watch a flick,
cheap ticket in hand,
not miss who might have been there
with you before the lit screen.
don’t you sometimes wish
this ice and this count of nights
counted something else,
not all of the nights without,
but rather all the nights with.
don’t you, but you, you
don’t need to count nights—i do.
every poem—mark,
scratch on the wall numbering
something, a to or a from.
portland, oregon / 2.6.2019
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21. |
night twenty one
01:40
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night twenty one
with fond memories of t. pratchett’s books
if i were a believer
i’d make believe some
personal small gods for us.
it is night and i got time, so here:
our lady of the perpetual exhaustion,
for aren’t we always tired, never asleep,
our lord of shared bar food and leftovers,
for those days we haven’t money for food.
our lady of the food and drink establishments,
smiting the rich fussy fuckers that never tip,
our lord of the bless’d impermanent rental,
for those times landlords deserve a hell,
our lady of the last bus and train,
may she get you through night,
our lord of the corner store,
who would be a black cat,
our lady of the fuck-it,
closing those doors
behind our backs,
those bastards
didn’t deserve
us in the first
place, with
a loudest
bang.
portland, oregon / 2.7.2019
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22. |
night twenty two
02:17
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night twenty two
picture a boy in a faraway land
rosy cheeks, bundled a snowball,
he doesn’t know yet those crucibles
that his land uses to burn boys to men,
he doesn’t know yet, so he only had
four or five summers, born before
the fall and its colors and its rain.
picture a boy who knows his letters,
to you those letters might as well be
hieroglyphics, upside down facsimiles
of your own characters, rivering deltas.
he doesn’t know yet he is fated to trade
them for your tongue, all dental fricatives
of this and that thought turned to word.
picture a boy who likes cherries, he may
be in that so much like some boy you knew.
he doesn’t know yet that there are oceans
and continents and that he is waiting for
an airplane to take him somewhere he
will not be welcome, your own land.
picture now a man, a tired man,
remembering a boy who traveled
so far to count nights on a mountain,
he now knows burned and knows ash,
he now knows prices we pay for cherries,
he still doesn’t know how it all will end.
portland, oregon / 2.8.2019
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23. |
night twenty three
01:51
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night twenty three
nourishment, sustenance, manna:
receiving on this day word and loaf
and i keep thinking that gods are
among us, you can be the divine
intervention and, you, you could
be just a goddess in disguise,
a god with a callused hand,
wearing flannel and jeans,
or that ol’ comfy sweater,
how there are laughing
gods and gentle ones
soles on the asphalt
walking quietly to
be a god some
place for you
or for me,
unrequiring
of worship or
sacrifice, better
than the gods we
keep making up for
crosses and crescents
their eyes, their lips, their
limbs in our own image here
leaning comfortable on a wall,
curled on a couch lost in music,
making something, stealing a fire
for us, for them, for the cold times,
for all our fallen, for all our risen, for
that one day when you needed a god.
portland, oregon / 2.9.2019
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24. |
night twenty four
01:16
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night twenty four
phone battery is
at eighteen percent
and dropping, time left
to sleep six and a half hours
and decreasing. temperature
outside is twenty nine degrees
fahrenheit and it will get colder.
what a mundane recitation, this is
not poem, you would say, but is it not
a poem to see all things fading, to know
impermanence and decay in our everyday?
is it not a poem to see how snow melts?
is it not a poem to feel toes get cold
and wonder how entropy will get
to my heart one of these days?
how it will get colder, how
my winter won’t have
a spring even if it is
calendar summer.
is it not a poem
to be grateful
for a season
with you?
portland, oregon 2.10.2019
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25. |
night twenty five
01:46
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night twenty five
vietnamese coffee sweet
is my tiredness on this night:
all that sugar and a tad of bitter,
a chicory carnival, heya big easy,
all that get-up-wham-get-it-done,
but let’s take our sweet time on it,
and on completely unrelated note,
the dictionary’s word of the day is:
bardolater—there was talk of theater
some time previous to this moment—
i like the bard, i so do, oh, no doubt!
dear mr. shaw, what nice wordmaking!
though, indeed, i use the word with
none of its intended original sting.
bard-o-later, bar-do-later, so giddy,
can you tell—i had so much coffee!
is this anthropomorphic universe
conspiring, telling me a secret?
the problem with interpreting
tasseomantic frequency of
the universal voice is that
there is so much meaning
in every single grain of it
and none. sweet paradox.
so you just look for a bit,
then drink it up, words
and all, roll up your
sleeves to do the
best damn job
of work you
can do.
portland, oregon / 2.11.2019
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26. |
night twenty six
01:17
|
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night twenty six
every day
i’m four steps
away from
.
step one.
more poverty step two.
than i can fit more pain step three.
in my body. than i can let more cruelty
the world bear. of men rising
than fits in
one heart.
my body wears poverty like jewelry
handing out excess to the rich.
my world is painted with pain
they say the colors become me.
my heart spills itself daily,
a cup runneth over.
stand with me
at the edge.
hold my
hand.
take three
steps back. we dance
even if i will fall one day.
we danced.
portland, oregon / 2.12.2019
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27. |
night twenty seven
01:15
|
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night twenty seven
twenty seven is
the number of bones hidden
in the human hand.
one night per each bone to grasp
a home, a distant echo.
twenty seven is
the number of letters in
spanish alphabet.
which nights were vowels and which
were consonants, corazón?
twenty seven is
a club i am thirteen years
too late to join now,
not for the lack of trying
on those dark uncounted nights.
twenty seven is
the atomic weight of blue
sky metal i’m told.
can i color the sky then
with this number in my hand?
twenty seven is
written years colored by bones
i know i’m grasping
for meaning in shallow pools,
but i’m a tired man.
portland, oregon / 2.13.2019
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28. |
night twenty eight
01:49
|
|||
night twenty eight
‘alf layla wa-layla,
listen, this story is told:
dark nights, one after another,
passing manifold. i entertain, pour joy
and pain on this sheet of rain, so you, my
dearest witness, know in word my small world.
not unlike
Scheherazade
i weave spells under
strain, though my sultan isn’t
you, but my mind’s constant refrain
“don’t stop, keep going, do something
with this time, write. write!” see, we just
barely made it through another quatrain.
twenty eighth sunset
after leaving a cozy light.
i don’t know if i will write one
thousand and one night. such
a long tale may be a bit much for
all involved. i don’t know if there are
that many nights in my sight.
meanwhile, i am,
like Nasreddin, telling
you of cold streets and warm
hearts, bridges, which are also hearts,
i’m told, isn’t that where you meet
the Beloved, in the mundane?
isn’t it where stories take us,
be they new or quite old?
portland, oregon / 2.14.2019
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29. |
night twenty nine
02:54
|
|||
night twenty nine
if i was a bird i’d be a sparrow,
one of them old, puffy molting ones,
nothin’ special apart from years lived,
you wonder how in the hell this bird
is still alive and chirping.
if i was a bird i’d be a pigeon,
you know walkin’ on the sidewalk,
shittin’, pickin’ up crumbs, struttin’,
whole life thinking he was an owl,
a very confused city bird indeed.
if i was a bird i’d be crow,
damn i look so good in black,
even if a human looks at me and
says “well shit, that bird sure is fat.”
joke’s on you, human, i made it this far.
if i was a bird, i’d fly.
spread my fucking wings
and fly over cities, over rivers,
fly to those i love and peck loud
on their windows full of skies.
if i was a bird you’d love me,
not like you love a canary caged,
you’d love the feathers i left behind,
you’d love all the croaking and chirping
and leave me a nice slice of blackberry pie.
if i was a bird, if i was,
you would all be birds too,
but you’d be those colorful birds,
wingspan of six feet or more gliding
in the sky above me so damn beautiful.
if i was a bird, but i ain’t.
this is just a poem about wings
i don’t have. just words for feathers.
just a beats per minute hummingbird
of my heart, this is your valentine card.
this is your valentine card,
filled with songs, for all of you,
i got enough syllables for the whole
wide world, enough vowels to harmonize
with each and every one of you on this night.
portland, oregon / 2.15.2019
|
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30. |
night thirty
01:47
|
|||
night thirty
this cat is a poem.
blue russian fur coat,
soft to the touch luxury,
those cadmium yellow eyes,
following you with a hungry look.
this poem would hunt us, this poem
would take a god damn nap for hours,
silent, and we would still read it, that is,
if we were fond of the feline lines.
this poem is a cat.
it’s about itself. enough.
it stretches its lines outward,
it will likely fit in some sort of box,
it wants your attention but is very coy,
it purrs when it wants, and you want it to.
it is a nocturnal creature but doesn’t mind
lounging in the sun with its syllables open
just enough to see you read it whole.
thirty nights.
i wrote in each.
poetry is something
that is every day, something
hard, something soft, something
wild, something almost tame,
but not quite, something
loyal, but a bit hungry,
something clawed,
this poem is
a cat then.
and cats
have always
been prowling
poems for us.
portland, oregon / 2.16.2019
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31. |
night thirty one
01:05
|
|||
night thirty one
failing mindbody,
hello. what spooked you this time?
what ghost did you see?
sometimes you’re a sturdy home.
sometimes—a burning driftwood.
what ghost did you see
in a life of another,
what made you shake so?
sometimes you are a steel beam.
sometimes—a burnt cattail shook.
what made you shake so?
did i run too fast for you?
what ghost did you see?
sometimes, i’m homeless in my
failing mindbody, a ghost.
portland, oregon / 2.17.2019
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32. |
night thirty two
03:00
|
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night thirty two
hey, i am
in a hot tub.
it’s got damn
jets and, quite
possibly, lights.
there are nights
when i am a damn
hobo prince, poeting
in the day time, soaking
weary bones in hot water
half past midnight, ain’t
too bad for a pauper,
ain’t too shabby at
all, those nights
are rare, but
damn they
are fine.
once
i stayed
at a mansion
in malibu canyon,
once at a monastery
on oceanside hills,
once i slept in
an old tree,
i’ve had more
homes than i can
count, they just
weren’t mine
to keep.
i’ve slept
in national
forest parks,
in japanese cars,
in a dodge caravan,
on a back seat, heading
to san francisco once,
in rvs and on floors,
i slept on benches,
slept in those hostel
rows of bunk beds,
i slept sitting up.
once or a few times
i slept under the stars,
sharing a blanket
with someone
who maybe
loved me,
or at least
thought so
for some time.
on those nights
i think orion belt
is mine to wear,
and a crown of
leaves is better
than any crowns
of silver or gold.
that my naked
is finer than
any fancy
designer
rags.
on those
nights my
damn crown
is mine to give
away, my naked
is enough of a gift,
and my broken
is just a song
that you’d
listen to.
because,
look at how
pretty the scars
are after midnight,
look, how i’ve healed,
look, i made music from
all of the pain the world
gave me on its silver,
look, how gentle my
hands learned to be,
all i’m saying, look,
i’m still breathing.
ain’t that a thing,
a shiny thing,
i can put in
the bank.
portland, oregon / 2.18.2019
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33. |
night thirty three
01:38
|
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night thirty three
if you know me,
you know repetitive
numbers play a game
with my eyes, i see them
everywhere, on clocks and
receipts, on license plates and
house addresses, in the weirdest
places here they are beep-beeping
my mind, pretty patterns repeating,
now, i am not looking for messages
in bottles or some deep meanings,
it is just that i think they are nice,
one-one-one-ones standing oh
so tall and rising, three threes
talking cubes and volumes,
two-two-two swanning on,
lucky sevens’ jig, a one-two
one-two marching song,
i like the silliness of it,
the humanness of it all,
the make-a-wish of it,
the hey-i-see-you
peek-a-boo, ha!
it makes a dark
world lighter,
just a little,
for a time.
for you:
11:11.
portland, oregon / 2.19.2019
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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
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