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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
00:22
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This is the audio version of the fourth 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.
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2. |
night one hundred
01:01
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night one hundred
tally marks on
unseen walls are
how i make the sky
a home, specks of fire
nameless to my tongue,
uncountable, witness this
housewarming calculation.
one hundred notches made,
one hundred nights—written.
in that no rest, no ending, just
a continuous beginning chime,
a road paved with our stories,
not answers, not questions,
a silence that commands
to listen to each night.
tonight i tended fire.
i watched it burn
to ash and coal.
portland, oregon / 4.26.2019
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3. |
night one oh one
00:47
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night one oh one
selfish magic tricks,
is this the card for us,
quiet kisses butterflies
like little i-love-you notes,
hands finding places—hold
music too loud to be heard,
my memory is conjuring up
these houses at three a.m.
where party doesn't stop
so full of excited empty
despair spilling its oil
on the dirty floors.
and that's all
there is
time
for.
portland, oregon / 4.27.2019
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4. |
night one oh two
00:49
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night one oh two
these nights start to feel
like college courses i never
got to take. like an education
in nomad habits, like if i make it
past the curriculum a degree waits
for me—a doctorate in biochemistry
of these portland streets, a master's
in making it through rain of seasonal
depression disorder, all these one-oh
textbooks tattooed on my skin city-dirt,
a graduation gown of nights, here, poet,
take your diploma and like soviet engineers
in the nineties hang it on a honeybucket wall.
portland, oregon / 4.28.2019
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5. |
night one oh three
00:56
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night one oh three
transfer day, a zero-gravity
suspension in-between beds,
a day of unknown, a day asking
will the world carry this burden
of a carcass in need of refuge.
this tension of a bow string,
sending the arrow of me,
hoping to land in a bed,
or a couch, or floor,
how sweet is knowing
comfort of a lent blanket,
how warm is to feel a building
that would swallow me for a time,
how hopeful each midnight deeming
me still human, still offering shelter, still
saying good night. one hundred and three.
portland, oregon / 4.29.2019
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6. |
night one oh four
01:12
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night one oh four
a family of sighs
made a home of me,
they come and go often,
i assume to work and school,
maybe to walk their sigh dog or
let out their sigh cat to the streets.
they live in my belly, probably talk
about doing some small home
improvements while i sleep.
my mouth their doorway,
my shoulders balconies,
they sit there drinking
tea, somehow heavy
for beings of air.
i am a careful home,
holding them all tender,
saying i'm glad you are here.
saying on your way out visit my
heart, it's there next to my lungs,
it is a warm and hardworking engine
of this moving castle you call your home.
portland, oregon / 4.30.2019
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7. |
night one oh five
01:08
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night one oh five
notes on rolled up sleeves,
chalk marks to remind some
sort of passing truth of being,
was awake, then went to sleep,
then was awake again. and then.
i tell my story, your story, maybe,
our story. plain as egg cracked
on cast iron edge, a little salt,
a little pepper, comfort food,
a sizzle on some melted fat,
fast, simple—though mad.
though strewing puzzles,
a clue—it's never food,
across the word lines,
yes. look at the bear.
look, a bear dances.
look, can you bear
a dancing bear,
its bare time.
and then?
portland, oregon / 5.1.2019
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8. |
night one oh six
00:57
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night one oh six
you will find what's real,
when you listen to a tear drop,
whether its faucet is in joy or pain,
when that dew lands on your own skin,
blends with your blood inseparable water,
to melt and meld in a silent well, deep
well, taking every rain, every muddy
stream, within. a bellyful of mirth
for every fall, every oily puddle,
a gnawing thirst for sorrows,
a drunkard's flask full with
hungry koi and moonlight,
passed through your gill,
then will you breathe
the atmosphere of
that desired real.
portland, oregon / 5.2.2019
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9. |
night one oh seven
01:16
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night one oh seven
a letter
home, that is,
a letter to the past,
or a letter to the future.
dear home. this town blooms.
i stay most often by an old cemetery.
the cemetery also blooms and blossoms.
the hummingbirds now flirt with sugar water.
i make my living. though you are missed from me.
all these places, that aren't you, send greetings,
i do not know when i'm coming back again
or how many nights i will owe our table.
i hope you fare well. your tired walls
painted, your hinges oiled, your
windows clear to the spring.
i kiss your windowsill,
with every tender,
yours nightly,
stranger.
portland, oregon / 5.3.2019
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10. |
night one oh eight
01:59
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night one oh eight
you know that feeling
when you had words on
your mind, but haven't got
them down when they arrived?
yeah, i'm feeling it now. sorry, words.
there's no excuse for not taking down
your ephemeral dictation full of streets
when you were gliding through my mind.
i remember elation of a gathering gone
right and solitary dinner afterwards,
i remember remembering lucky,
i remember counting sleeping
bags and tents on the way
back to the roof i would
sleep under and little
drunks falling out
of every bar.
held up
by weary ghosts
or angels, depending
on what makes your gods
tick. or nothing. held up by
every winged nothing for every
hard everything that little drunks
needed on this night, on every night.
i remember aching muscles of the day.
words though. the beautiful kind. are
lost now somewhere in this town—
if you find them, tell them to keep
dancing, to kiss the winged nothings,
the little drunks, the everything, lightly
on foreheads, on the dirty tents, on
the feet of sleeping bags, on city
lights, i will find the words again
there by lip prints and echoes
of jitterbug steps, see, how
easy it was to find them.
again and again and
again. see, how
i am kissed
by them.
portland, oregon / 5.4.2019
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11. |
night one oh nine
00:53
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night one oh nine
it's sunday.
a day of rest,
my friend posits,
would do me good.
i try. yet part of me is
unwilling to slow down
the task flood that keeps
me going, as though, were
i to stop i would fall to pieces,
brittle mud only alive by words,
i, a golem, my truth removed.
i, a whale shark, must keep
moving to pass my tears
through my gills to live.
respire and locomote,
convince myself that
it is worth it to keep
moving, moving,
always moving
in my mind.
portland, oregon / 5.5.2019
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12. |
night one hundred ten
00:58
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night one hundred ten
fragile electricity of it all, this city,
these people, you and me. pulsing
until something shorts out, random
breaker flips or wires start to sizzle,
just a hint of the burnt plastic scent,
but all that is unseen, hidden in walls.
i sit on the stairs of a former church,
my eyes—stained glass, waiting for
sun, my mind, an abandoned house,
damn, if i don't want to set it aflame.
i'll keep patching it up instead, just
to make it last a few more nights.
portland, oregon / 5.6.2019
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13. |
night one one one
00:45
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night one one one
this night is a light breeze
through an open may window
bringing distant train horns and
car rumbles, like a friend that
brings by a few forgotten
things from the corner
store, without asking,
little things. chips
or cigarettes or
chocolates.
or a smile.
how summer
of you, dear wind,
shall i put the kettle
on the stove and find
some mugs for our air?
portland, oregon / 5.7.2019
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14. |
night one hundred twelve
00:29
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night one hundred twelve
mirrors in dive bar restrooms
are scratched like all the pain
contained in reflections tried
to get out, be free of its silver,
covered in tags, as though
writing one's name here would
capture afflictions in its glass.
these mirrors—our dorian gray.
portland, oregon / 5.8.2019
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15. |
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night one hundred thirteen
“you make homeless look so easy,
i envy that you are so homefree.”
“you are so well put together,
this story just cannot be.”
i heard these and more
a few times in the past.
thank you, darlings,
but i just haven't got
to the hard part again.
see, homeless takes time,
takes time to make a building
condemned. takes time to empty
its walls, grow neglect in its windows,
and i am a lucky building, built by streets
of another city, that doesn't believe in tears.
though one day, one day, this building
too will be found wanting, foundation
cracked, deemed unsafe, its place
in the world desired by a new
sports bar with giant tvs for
the big game millionaires
play, another i walking
next to it, backpack
keeps unzipping
ready to spill
life on the
streets.
i, a bagful,
keep unraveling,
ready to spill my life
on the streets, jealous
of canadian geese honks,
of freedom to cross any river.
portland, oregon / 5.9.2019
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16. |
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night one hundred fourteen
these sunsets keep
coming at me,
relentless parade,
shadow-march,
i keep wanting
to find an us
in this,
but, no,
this procession
is a solitary thing.
a lonely thing.
a thing hanging
from a dead tree.
skeletal structure.
after a while,
answering questions
is a burden, weight
of it stifles breath,
the way it sits
on my chest,
goading worth
and value of being
-less thing.
i drown it all
in smoke and coffee.
in the end
it won't be
cigarettes that
get me,
it'll be the atlantic
telephone
and telegraph
company
sucking me dry
for that backlit
shining lifeline.
portland, oregon / 5.10.2019
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17. |
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night one hundred fifteen
showers are incredible
so are beds, no, no, really,
both of these inventions are
unbelievable, as in, i'm starting
to forget how it is like to wake up
in a bed each morning or how it is
to stand under the falling water daily.
take away something long enough and
that something is a miracle. i forget how
everyday it was to open a door to a home,
its empty greeting tired feet, forget how
it feels to walk without the bag weight
permanently attached to my back.
i forget if i ever was a belonging,
if i ever was not another alien,
see, in russia i was ukrainian,
see, in ukraine i was russian,
see, in america i am accent,
see, in the world i am lost,
see, in a city i'm a speck,
see, on the road i am
just a pair of boots.
i ask to be human,
but this request
a tumbleweed
in a parking lot,
waiting on a janitor,
or an artist who takes
found objects to a studio,
makes things for the rich
to admire. see isn't it
a damn miracle this
tumbleweed lived
once. was green.
knew skywater,
knew earthbed.
knew a home.
portland, oregon / 5.11.2019
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18. |
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night one hundred sixteen
nights burn, drip grief,
molten for a time, sticky
and hot to the touch, rigid
after, frozen in shapes until
another flame eats the wick
of me, the light is joyful, i think,
useful, maybe. how can a thread
be sure of its purpose, charred,
put out by coarse fingers wet
with spit of this now or next.
but ain't the candle pretty
dressed in its gutters,
waiting for a match,
clever hands that
would play with
shadows from
nights that
still burn.
portland, oregon / 5.12.2019
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19. |
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night one hundred seventeen
a canadian goose
flies past the window
at quarter to midnight,
honking. i wonder what
circumstance led to that.
then remember rose scent
on my evening walk. then
watch a moth dance for
a while. this moth hits
the ceiling, irregular
thumps. enthused,
confused, or both.
not unlike hearts.
how tender can
a night call us
to listen to its
symphonies.
how its wind
moths bare
skin—lost
within walls.
portland, oregon / 5.13.2019
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20. |
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night one hundred eighteen
tell me of places i'll never visit,
describe their scentscape in detail,
play me the soundtrack of streets and
valleys that you passed to get there whole.
mention a flower that broke the concrete,
make me believe we are such flowers.
tell me of crooked trees that survive
axes and fires, make me think we
are such miracles. tell me how
a crow chases a small hawk
to a crooked cemetery tree,
tell me a graveyard still
grows sweet berries.
make me feel we
are that sweet.
portland, oregon / 5.14.2019
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21. |
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night one hundred nineteen
this is the town of side-view
mirrors hanging by cables from
car bodies, waiting for duct tape,
objects may appear closer than they
are. ain't that a metaphor for how we
make it through our hindsights daily.
ain't we making it by a measure of
how well did the tape stick on us,
ain't we a patched up fleet on
its way to some safe harbor,
expired tags and broken
just enough to deem
us not worth fixing,
just drive us into
the ground.
portland, oregon / 5.15.2019
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22. |
night one hundred twenty
00:47
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night one hundred twenty
pour me a cup of tears,
иль стакан гранёный
дождевой воды.
i want to gulp it
quickly, глотки
жадной голод
утолить на
час иной.
listen,
town-town
upside down,
постели мне
простынь над
рекой, let me
rest, let me
стать чужой
абрикосовой
звездой, yeah?
estoy cansado,
darlings, true.
one hundred
and twenty
nights in
flight,
hope
hoping
to survive.
portland, oregon / 5.16.2019
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23. |
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night one hundred twenty one
in the end.
this is not the end.
but then there will be
no one. just a cheap string
of rudraksha beads worn out
spilling onto dirt. when the day
is so long that tired tears come
that is not the end. just a stop,
a consideration for an end.
it is not a song but a wail
silent one. inked one.
drip drip drip drip.
night after night.
how strong can
i be, how long,
when can i
spill on
dirt.
will my
sigh call
the dirt home?
how long does a
sigh need to be held?
how many sighs are held?
how many sighs does it take
to water this dirt a garden.
portland, oregon / 5.17.2019
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24. |
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night one hundred twenty two
midnight.
a tiny home.
there is a cat
purring a song
next to me. this.
this is how i wish
midnights would be
on all of my days. this.
this jazz rain on drums.
poetry at coffee houses.
poets sending star bursts
outward, and after, after
that, quiet nights. rest.
quiet gratitude for
this gift. on this
night i thank
you and
cats.
portland, oregon / 5.18.2019
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25. |
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night one hundred twenty three
for mike. for micah. for shane
poet spills electric blue on the stage.
and after. after the sky blooms gold,
blossoms rainbow, as it does after
a summer storm. all the green is
fresh and the mulch spells
we will grow. we will grow.
we, trees lightning-hit,
grow hesitant stems
showing our leaves
to the sky that
charred us.
poet rains red hot fire on the stage.
and after. after the sky is starry night,
specks blinking stages of our pain,
constellations of forgiveness,
placed there by poet's
clever hands signing
we are still able
to love like
this boy.
poet sets letters geometry to a page.
and after. after the sky is lush velvet ink
known to the graveyard shift writers,
a blanket for this cat of a moon
to roll on, hope full, even if
it will wane now, again,
and wax again.
i just want
you to
know.
poets are
weaving sorrow
into the sky for you
to find whatever hope
you need on this one night.
portland, oregon / 5.19.2019
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26. |
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night one hundred twenty four
caution. eyelids are closing.
next station is somewhere far.
and i, a late passenger in this body,
keep eyes open by sticking my words
between day and night. eyes close.
another night has passed. words
tired bent tools lay there failed.
portland, oregon / 5.20.2019
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27. |
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night one hundred twenty five
it's twelve forty five.
all i can think of is sleep,
yet i write stubborn.
mundane means we're still alive
isn't that a damn miracle?
portland, oregon / 5.21.2019
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28. |
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night one hundred twenty six
i feel a worn howl.
a tattered roar. holy.
the kind of holy that's
mad, the kind that dies
at the end. the kind that's
left in the desert, fingernails
covered in blood and red clay.
the kind that kisses car bumpers
with broken teeth. the kind that
greets a train with an embrace,
the kind that doesn't get to
keep a belt or a shoelace.
the kind that curls up
a wolf cornered,
the kind that
shivers at
a touch.
portland, oregon / 5.22.2019
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29. |
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night one hundred twenty seven
there we are
ladling the honey
and chicory of our
lives onto this stage
like the water we wash
the world with in a small
zinc tub, mix hot and cold
in a single sentence, rinsing
the soap off, hoping the dirt
and ink of our days would
come off this skin, but it
doesn't. dive bar stains
are still there, always,
track marks where
we poured words
into bloodstream
don't come off.
darlings, look
at the soil of us,
so rich for seeding,
given spittle and sweat.
don't you want to plant
a tree here. don't you
want to make flower
beds out of all the walls
we broke in our haste
to be free of stones.
don't you want to
gulp it all up like
the fake coffee
of our poverty.
portland, oregon / 5.23.2019
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30. |
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night one hundred twenty eight
all is as quiet as can be.
i try my best let go of the bad
and of the good in this rare silence.
i think, is this the beginning of an end
when one is judged erratic and lacking
from great distance and in distraction.
is that how trash is taken out, some
thing that served on an occasion
but now must be discarded.
how business trumps
humanity in us.
the crux of it.
if not for poets,
i'd believe myself
to be the refuse and
build a pyre to cleanse
the world of excess liability.
but poets find hope in any
leavings, a treasure map
in dirty rags, we go in
knowing the world
shall pauper us,
then on death
conveniently
crown and
claim kin
and kith,
lamenting
some other
circumstance.
onward poet, then,
to make mills of giants.
portland, oregon / 5.24.2019
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31. |
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night one hundred twenty nine
1.
some rabid guy almost
threw a table at me, asked
if i wanted his violence on my
fists, i said, nah, keep it in yours.
i've brushed enough of myself in
that palette of blue and yellow,
enough vermillion burst onto
my canvas to make rothko
jealous, i burned those
paintings. kept just
the one and it is
not for today.
do your own time.
live and learn, guy.
mine is for molasses
made of the beets of my
past, mine is for ocean coves,
my time is for words that shine,
my time ain't yours, guy, keep on
walking, your plucked peacock
feathers do not impress me,
see, i've seen condors fly.
2.
this pull magnetic.
these long glances kinetic.
what have fates for us.
how will the time play this jazz.
i live just the once. and you?
portland, oregon / 5.25.2019
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32. |
night one hundred thirty
00:19
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night one hundred thirty
two in the morning.
ocean anticipation.
now let me sleep, world.
portland, oregon / 5.26.2019
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33. |
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night one hundred thirty one
i sat with ocean,
she spoke in waves of
distant places, pasts and
futures ebb and glow, eyes
filled with infinite compassion
for every wind and every storm,
lighthouses in her palms, nestled,
as though she would gift them all to
the coming gentle night, a compliment
to rising constellations and hope for
the rest of us, who gaze at stars,
those, who seek small truths
between word's flight and
curling fronds of time.
there, in the water,
my echo lingers,
a whale song
sung in light.
portland, oregon / 5.27.2019
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34. |
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night one hundred thirty two
two cherries
in my hand. one
for the memory of
cherry trees i climbed,
old giants with fruit suited
best for wine or sweetest liquor,
bark scraping skin, bloods mingled,
the view unfolding, houses and roads,
whitened mud straw-hatted and dust
contained by marigolds, as amber as
the sun, and fences, as blue as sky,
as long ago as cherry pit would be
another tree. this cherry would
take you to a river isle where
my roma kin kept dancing
with the southern wind,
and horses begged
hands for apples.
that cherry would
sing you elder songs
stringful of joyful sorrows,
ah, to watch us twirl on sands,
to hear stomping feet away a mile,
this cherry's stone would find itself
in a rowing boat, watching clouds
float and water flow. flow. flow.
this second cherry. i hold it,
yet untasted: it is unknown
like the futures we are yet
to weave. glance its skin
for signs and portents
of our tomorrows.
then bite it, for
untasted it is
just a cherry.
portland, oregon / 5.28.2019
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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
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!
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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,'
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