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 thirty four
01:12
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night thirty four
before the twilight,
hills beforested, fogset,
on and on, loom sad.
these dark nights, shadows fire-cast,
melt on walls of my regret.
the nightlight flickers—
it is a trick of tired eyes—
no near open flame,
electric light is steady
unlike my tired hand and sight.
i am unready
for the next soon upheaval,
an unrested rook.
had i wings they would sadly
droop lacking flight and courage.
i am unready
it is a trick of tired eyes
before the twilight.
had i wings they would sadly
melt on walls of my regret.
portland, oregon / 2.20.2019
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2. |
night thirty five
01:25
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night thirty five
the last bus again,
a well-met friend for a stop,
for a word or two—
this town can from time to time
be a village greeting-filled.
some cold nights contain
pats on the back, hugs sincere,
tired smiling faces,
and music, always music,
what would we do without that?
what would we be if
not for shared conversation,
if not for our warmth?
how could i tell you the worth
of potato chips to life?
i dream for you, dream
for me, dream for us to thrive
despite the winter,
despite the rich and their greed,
despite the hurt in our hearts.
i dream for you, dream
a well-met friend for a stop,
your smiling faces,
and music, always music,
dream for us a better life.
portland, oregon / 2.21.2019
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3. |
night thirty six
01:40
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night thirty six
shoes with mouths,
infinite task lists,
dirty laundry—
eternal thing,
that's my life.
poverty and
poetry are made
with same letters,
but poverty takes a v.
and switching letters,
i'm sure someone has
noticed this fact at some
prior time. what does this v
stand for: vandal's victory via
vindictive violence, or, perhaps,
it is a violet viola vacillating vague
ventures very vibrantly? what's in it?
i remember korben dallas telling leeloo
that there are some very good words starting
with "v", like valiant and vulnerable and
very beautiful, maybe that's what
poets put in poverty to make
ends meet: valiant very
beautiful vulnerability.
vroom, our voice,
vroom indeed.
so long as
we don't
find war.
portland, oregon / 2.22.2019
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4. |
night thirty seven
01:12
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night thirty seven
this heart is
apparently not
very rain proofed.
always a last flood.
this heart is also not
taking well to sun screen.
something about toxic metals.
it is allergic to sharp and cruel,
so like humanity it exists in
the narrow habitable zone
of deserts or rainforests
or it burns, or is soaking
wet, ashes and water,
stilling itself clarity,
still somehow it
measures time,
still likes pizza,
still wanders,
still greets
strangers.
what beat
can i play
for you
says
this
heart
earnest.
portland, oregon / 2.23.2019
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5. |
night thirty eight
02:37
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night thirty eight
safety in numbers.
i woke up thirty eight times
under a roof. safe.
thirty eight times and three more
mornings are predictable.
this old heart made one
billion seven hundred four
million two hundred
sixty eight thousand and eight
hundred beats. and keeps beating.
safety in numbers.
i woke up fourteen thousand
and seven hundred
ninety four times on this rock.
i keep waking up. somewhere.
this new heart will count
out more beats. my metronome
may have skipped a few
times, may have wanted a break,
but it keeps beating, reckless.
safety in numbers.
if my mind is counting nights
it doesn't keep a count
of my friends who do not wake,
or times i didn't want to wake.
this human heart beats
no matter where it is put,
a silly muscle,
it does not know home or math,
or those other human things.
safety in numbers.
if you are counting with me,
it is almost like
we are together in this,
like we can multiply nights.
these all human hearts
eighty beats per minute songs,
seven and a half
billion songs, just think of it,
seven and a half billion.
safety in numbers.
another night tallied up,
these two hundred and
seventy nine syllables
in this one poem. counted.
portland, oregon / 2.24.2019
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6. |
night thirty nine
01:06
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night thirty nine
i drank the background
chatter of the coffee shops
mixed with my bitter,
you can find the ocean here
indifferent waves lapping.
all i did today
is stare at the computer,
trying to make things,
shuffling text and images,
life within an illusion.
i miss the ocean,
miss warmth of coastal summer,
it seems far away.
unreachable from winter.
how can i ever make plans?
how can i believe
my own crooning promises
of technicolor
futures, when i am two steps
away from black and white edge?
portland, oregon / 2.25.2019
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7. |
night forty
01:02
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night forty
enough nights
to chase ghosts
away from a place,
enough nights to take
something whole down
from a mountain, enough
nights for a desert, enough
nights for some temptations,
i am as grainy as ever, better in
black and white photographs,
a tattered book, dog-eared
pages of me ask for fire,
there is snow instead.
i am a place, i am
a mountain, i am
a desert , i am
a temptation,
i am a night,
i am snow.
it's a cold
fortieth
night.
portland, oregon / 2.26.2019
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8. |
night forty one
01:49
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night forty one
outside, wind has changed,
it is colder and faster,
shaking pines for green
boughs, an eastern wind, bandit
wind, blowing straight to the bone.
maybe we should name
this cold wind? don't we name things?
maybe carol or
bob or sweet-baby-jesus?
then we could talk to it, yeah?
talk it down like some
failed banker off the high ledge,
call them by their name,
tell them speed kills, mostly us,
tell them, slow down, have a cup.
but they are a wind,
perceptible natural
movement of the air,
current with a direction,
anthropomorphism won't work.
we could hide, like we
hide from problems we can't solve,
talk about wind in
hushed tones, wait them out, drink tea,
get busy with something else.
i will imagine
that i am some relative
of mary poppins,
pack my carpet bags word-full,
ride the umbrella elsewhere.
portland, oregon / 2.27.2019
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9. |
night forty two
03:16
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night forty two
42 is everything.
42 is the big answer.
42 is a yes in chinese.
42 is dying in japanese.
42 is a wildcard and a star.
42 is the street in new york.
42 gallons of oil make a barrel.
42 questions answered and a cat
will make you a bright star in heavens.
42 will create a universe in the hands of
a vengeful god according to a book.
42 will only be seen on a baseball
field of the major league on april
fifteenth, jackie robinson day.
42 is the number of dollars in
all my accounts and pockets,
i am still richer then some i see
in sleeping bag coffins tucked
away in recesses of the street.
"oh dear! I shall never get to
twenty at that rate!" dear
alice, i got to night 42.
does that make me
a wildcard, a star,
a dying thing?
should i talk more
with cats? should i
know the price of oil?
should i play baseball at
least once before i expire?
should i read at that library?
should i know the number with
which the vengeful god destroys?
i have said goodbyes to mount tabor,
thankful it kept me whole for a while,
no visible transfiguration took place,
maybe i am just a little too old for it,
or maybe that's continent specific.
i have said hello to the adventure
land, its walls artful, echoes of
music singing me to sleep.
hey, my dearest reader,
in the evening church,
i fell a little in love, just
for five or six songs,
after all, this poetry is
of confessional nature,
then i remembered
i'm a little too old
for that, maybe.
see, life goes on,
each night. forty two.
keep singing odes
to beds and cats.
portland, oregon / 2.28.2019
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10. |
night forty three
01:02
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night forty three
how do i...
let me count the...
one day my memory
will skip the most beautiful
words, not today, not this night,
but i hope you would remind me, then,
of every word i would forget, that is why
we make books, isn't it, friends, yes?
so when dreaded day comes and
our faculties fail we could pick
up elizabeth's sonnets and
read to each other as if
for the first time,
as if love is still
first-sighted,
as if all we
ever need
is breath
to love.
portland, oregon / 3.1.2019
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11. |
night forty four
02:11
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night forty four
it was a day like so many others.
wake up, have a list of things to do,
get through that list, maybe, then go
to sleep when all is said and done. but.
it was also a day of friends saying good
morning before the rest of the world ever
laid claim on my time. it was a day of a sip
of coffee saved by the same friends and
given—how can a day start with such
gifts. it was a day where the sun
came out and made the sky
the kind of blue that is not
sad, that cerulean joy
of possible flight.
it was a day
when poets
spoke words
into the sunset
and the sun heard.
it was a day that had
two slices of cold pizza
in the last act, what luck
is to have friends who feed
you, who give onto you smiles,
what luck of night to have lived
to night forty four, it's four elevens,
you know by now my obsession with
repetitive number patterns. what luck
to have shared this day with so many
who keep burning their pain to light
up a path for that improbable
wondrous tomorrow, what
luck, indeed, to know
i might see these
faces again
as i'd see
the sun.
portland, oregon / 3.2.2019
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12. |
night forty five
01:15
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night forty five
melancholy settles
on my shoulders
with all its weight,
i jib, but it reins
so well and i am
a broken-in ride.
we trot on.
i should sleep,
but there is much
to still do and so
very little time.
i hide from
sadness in
all this work.
is it worth it?
is there worth?
a good hiding
place is this
time. time.
my day
is random
sardines
and
sun
briefly
on cigarette
breaks,
i haven't
looked well
in mirrors
for a while,
could be
a sort of
blindness, or
the melancholy
looking through
my eyes eager
to find spurs.
i don't know
how it would
feel to be
a freed
horse.
portland, oregon / 3.3.2019
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13. |
night forty six
01:08
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night forty six
time has a peculiar quality
of quickening as its count rises.
my six year old weeks were long,
forty year old weeks—lightnings,
the last grains of sand seem to fall
at more rapid pace then the first ones.
i am counting nights under different roofs,
these poems seem closer together now,
sunsets and sunrises blurring in one
long time-lapse motion, paused
somewhere around midnight,
for a moment, then gaining
speed, more speed, more,
emotions are stars now,
streaks superluminal
in my eyes closing,
sleep claiming its
dues for one
more night.
portland, oregon / 3.4.2019
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14. |
night forty seven
00:57
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night forty seven
just take the fucking
cigarette! and how much
gentle can you put in those
words, rumbling volcano asleep,
my people are the ones who can't
stand any bird caged, my people
say true things and simple ones,
my people greet the night with
a damn hug, my people read
poems in pool halls aloud,
my people say goodbye
in fifteen languages
and always mean
hello. my people
give me hope
on the daily.
give songs
and they
mean
love.
portland, oregon / 3.5.2019
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15. |
night forty eight
01:16
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night forty eight
there are days
when i am slinging
poetry–loud fishmonger,
smelly, gut-blood-covered:
here’s your poetry, twenty five
bucks per pound, fresh caught!
look, this one is still alive, shaking!
pick it up by the gills, look into its
alien eyes, think on how you’ll
cook it later in your gefilte
fish or some poem stew,
maybe dry it on the line,
look, i will kill it for you,
so you do not have to,
bash it on its head,
filet the meat of it,
weigh it, wrap it
in newsprint,
give to you
a goldfish
to take
home.
let it go,
wish for a
better poem,
wish for some
candy-poet, clean,
who’d feed you eclairs,
all chocolate and cream,
but tell me, what the fuck
were you doing at the docks,
looking for a baked dream?
portland, oregon / 3.6.2019
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16. |
night forty nine
01:27
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night forty nine
when people hand me money.
i take it. say thank you very much.
see, i left my pride somewhere in LA,
in a giant pot full of hostel spaghetti,
or, maybe, earlier in some kitchen,
or, bit by bit left it on some road,
tell myself maybe one day i get
to give as i get, maybe i can
give the world an embrace,
or a string of words which,
in mind is too an embrace,
maybe, i could do a little
something with this life
that's worth a buck or
two, worth waking up,
worth all these gifts,
worth this belief in
someone's mind
that i will make
it a bit longer,
that i might
one day
know a
home
—
throw
open the
doors and
cook a meal
fall asleep in
a garden chair,
most content to
hold that shrapnel
next to my heart for
enough time to hear
more of your songs.
portland, oregon / 3.7.2019
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17. |
night fifty
02:24
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night fifty
sometimes my mind
races to all the dark places
and i count seconds one after
another: one mississippi, two alligator,
three hippopotamus, four keep counting,
six pistols and roses, seven lucky strikes,
eight its infinity, nine cat’s lives, ten, damn,
i forgot the five, now more seconds elapsed,
where do i pick up the count. stop. start again.
actors are deceiving beautifully and i wonder,
do they count too? counting steps down this
street, counting years and counting nights,
counting the six impossible things and
counting cigarettes left in the pack,
counting money, always counting,
counting, counting, counting all…
stop. you forgot something.
start over. one thousand.
thou art sand. thou art.
then i see the sand
in the glass which
is also sand and
sand is art too,
colors swept,
momentary,
passing.
stop.
you
forgot
something.
what was it?
fifty nights lived?
fifty mornings met?
do i dare count more?
should i count in french?
if this stranger could read
my thoughts would they count
along or would they run away?
count heartbeats, count them,
stop. start over. no. stop. get
some sleep, count sheep.
portland, oregon / 3.8.2019
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18. |
night fifty one
01:54
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night fifty one
there are topics
for which i have not
discovered right words.
parents. crimean question.
the ugliness of the traditional
russian values en masse,
nationalism of any kind,
grown-ass adults who
tell boys not to cry.
teachers who hit
their students.
teachers who
do not like what
they teach. that’s
just fucking silly, yet
it occurs daily worldwide.
i haven’t found the words
that would tell of genocides:
past, present and future deaths.
how religions killed, are killing and
will kill so many more earth’s children.
how a dog looks into your eyes even
though this dog doesn’t know you,
telling you: i would be your friend
and it is a fine day for a walk in
the park and i will protect you,
when the mailman shows up,
would that we look like that
at each other once in a while
strangers who might become
friends who walk in the parks,
i will keep looking for those
few words in the folds
of the kairos that is
upon us again
and again.
portland, oregon / 3.9.2019
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19. |
night fifty two
01:39
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night fifty two
i walked through the cemetery
today with a poet seeking the sun.
there is peace here and stories.
mainly about some hope for
an afterlife. ukrainian row
opposite russian row.
no arguments now.
same god-poetry
marble-etched.
see, we are all
the same in
this place.
the birds
like it here
among pines,
squirrels errand
from grave to grave.
yellow tulips just there,
it is worth to have a plot
for that gift alone. almost.
for a moment i recall marina,
her gentle word—"i too was,
passerby! passerby, stop."
i would have, marina, yes,
i too laugh from my belly
walking through cemeteries,
i too would have spoken from
tombs to strangers would i have
a loan of wind's clever tongue.
portland, oregon / 3.10.2019
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20. |
night fifty three
01:05
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night fifty three
all these nights are
color-coded survival,
the stench of making it,
the cold scent of another
twenty-four hours grasping
the rungs of this jacob’s ladder,
everything has an admission price,
each night takes something away,
a payment for day’s occupation,
one more night for this reason,
one more night for another,
this night for the music,
that night for a poem,
this one for a friend,
that one to prove
i can still stand.
how tempting
to unclench
exhausted
hand and
just fall.
portland, oregon / 3.11.2019
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21. |
night fifty four
01:39
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night fifty four
it is raining and night fifty four
sounds much like nineteen fifty four,
i read about bikini atoll and castle bravo.
i read about the start of war in guatemala.
i read of marilyn monroe and joe di maggio.
trying to connect the dots, not to write another
poem about portland rain, my mind might as well
be an unsolved rubic’s cube—fifty four squares
of colors scrambled waiting for clever fingers.
there go those sixes and nines again,
i am under a roof. i am in a bed.
i have eaten rather well today.
i give thanks. what do the
poorest people do when
superheroes in tights
save the world?
get on with it?
how many poets
could see their words
in print for a price of one
super-duper luxury yacht?
how many soup kitchens
and how many beds,
can fit in that house
at sixteen hundred
pennsylvania
avenue?
portland, oregon / 3.12.2019
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22. |
night fifty five
03:37
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night fifty five
night, my night,
sing me a lullaby,
an ancient comfort,
am i not yours to sing,
made of late highways,
am i not a mad moonbeam,
peering through thunderstorms,
are we not tied in a gordian knot,
one that every morning tried to cut,
aren’t we listening to the same cats,
sinuous movement in our own shade,
do we not worship the same dying lights,
arranged in a pattern akin to our bodies,
do i not offer my sacrifice of bright sand,
its gravity punctuating every grain’s fall,
would we not both yearn for jasmine,
sweet pronouncement of your time,
would i not burn in your silk-folds,
tangled moth, eyes on its wings,
sang i not you blue nocturnes,
iridescent sings of my love,
do i not sit wake for stars,
my heart cold-fusion engine,
haven’t we startled songbirds,
those cries waking day-dwellers,
haven’t we closed flowers gentle,
to save for the next twilight parade,
do we not cherish pitter-patter of rain,
cloud children come to sit on our roofs,
aren’t we a danube waltz into the streets,
our one-two-three—rivers of headlights,
would you not bury me under elm trees,
a little ash here, a little bone there,
would you not cover me in velvet,
in bright red nosebleed vertigoes
would i not be your neon sign,
lettercurve flicker welcoming,
am i not your true magician,
locked under your waters,
aren’t we beautiful trash,
picked before sunrise,
aren’t we tall waves,
amplitude modulated,
aren’t we a cigarette,
forgotten aspiration,
isn’t our stride matched,
with the old lady luck,
am i not a mad moonbeam,
peering through thunderstorms,
am i not yours to sing,
made of late highways,
sing me a lullaby,
an ancient comfort,
night, my night,
fifty five.
portland, oregon / 3.13.2019
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23. |
night fifty six
01:29
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night fifty six
to all those who perform
you have climbed this tall
mountain of a hard day,
did a job of work again,
emptied your pockets,
ate your desperate,
reached a ledge,
swaying, stood
there, the sun
of you dim.
hit your
heart.
start! you,
old bastard!
then stepped
off into free fall
of a microphone,
you may crash and
you know the pain of it,
but you still step forward,
hoping wind of their breath
will pick you up on its current
hoping you get to glide over
canyons of your own dark,
taking the last bits of you
and throwing them out
there: "here’s my joy,
here are my nights,
soar with me, i’m
still burning, still
taking you with
me on a ride,
one more
time."
portland, oregon / 3.14.2019
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24. |
night fifty seven
00:57
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|
night fifty seven
the ducks in the pond
seem satisfied with their life.
feet unseen moving.
i'm like a duck in this way,
peaceful, but my frantic feet.
my friend is happy,
seeing the ducks in the pond.
little things, my friend.
my little thing today was
your happiness in the sun.
night fifty seven.
after a very long day.
this shortest story.
the ducks, the sun, and my friend.
how we find moments grateful.
portland, oregon / 3.15.2019
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25. |
night fifty eight
03:11
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|
night fifty eight
we dream. dream of some
distant tomorrow. or maybe,
some sweet yesterday.
we fantasize and hide
from daily nightmares,
bad dreams, bad presents
or bad presence or just the bad
of it all, or maybe it is our mortality
that flips that switch, lets us flow
in times that aren’t now. i just know
that people keep dying. i just know
my friend brought me once to a forest
and believed i was a totoro. my umbrella
under trees, my feet in the canyon waters,
my mind—ocean. i mean my mind undying.
i mean my mind undead. i mean my mind…
i mean my mind has always known flying…
i mean the seagull kind of flying, not albatross,
not the regret kind of mind, but the soul of lost.
i’ve been always afraid, i would die without
saying a proper goodbye to the ocean,
that i would forget one day how to be
a true friend, one that listens longer,
stays for that one after last cigarette,
so every time i go, i plant my feet in
the sand, in the waters, and stare,
and say, old friend, i’m glad to
have known you, i’m glad
to have felt you on my
mind, all of your cold,
thermodynamically
relieving me of
my hot anger.
of my viscous
sadness, that
might as well
be a syrup for
all the saccharine
tears smothered on
the burnt toast of me,
of my not so long, but
getting longer years.
we dream. we dream.
that’s what nights are for.
that’s what days can be,
please keep dreaming
for me, for us, for ocean,
for those who can’t dream,
please keep dreaming colors,
please keep flying for them.
portland, oregon / 3.16.2019
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26. |
night fifty nine
01:07
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|
night fifty nine
very cranky poet.
fucky-fuckedy-fuck!
not enough minutes in
my day, no, no-siree-bob,
not nearly enough to get
everything done. nope.
not enough sleeping,
not enough years in
my remaining times,
there’s not enough
this and definitely
not enough of
that and that.
how i look
at bored
people
wondering,
how the fuck
do you manage
this particular feat?
can i please have all
of your unspent time!
pretty afucking please
with a damn cherry on
the very mountain top!
then i take a deepest
breath, hold it for
a few seconds,
exhale and
get going
again.
portland, oregon / 3.17.2019
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27. |
night sixty
01:37
|
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|
night sixty
somewhere out there,
there is a lost pocket knife.
a thin slice of foldable metal,
alone on cooling cement or dirt,
this is what mental fatigue is like:
useful tools get lost one by one,
not enough emotional space,
to mourn the loss, to know
that something was lost
until many hours later.
you just keep moving
until you lose some
vital part. then you
stop cold. cold
is lost metal.
this lost
knife
could be
a metaphor
for wanting to
cut all the knots,
the tangle of my life,
but not wanting to hurt
anyone by the sharp of it.
maybe that is why i found
another pen today. perhaps
i will write my way out of this.
maybe i will write our way out
of this. maybe then our knives
will become only things that
cut apples to share with
friends and strangers.
portland, oregon / 3.18.2019
|
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28. |
night sixty one
01:23
|
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|
night sixty one
cornered dog anger
rises snarling, its teeth bare
say walk away now.
but how unlike a dog is
human, fury lit, simmers.
do not yell at me,
i say, do not yell at me,
i can hear you fine,
if not for this damn corner
i would run somewhere quiet.
i am calming this
dog within, this maddened beast,
in all the corners
the world seems to have for me
despite all the poking sticks.
i long for places
where i can finally rest,
tell my dog—sleep now.
you are safe here, it's quiet,
you're free from corners and sticks.
portland, oregon / 3.19.2019
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29. |
night sixty two
01:49
|
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|
night sixty two
has this been done?
a nocturne for the sun
from the dark side of earth.
how your photons, your gentle
children play joyful, yesterday,
in my memory, with cat's fur,
with any prisms or clouds,
how you give summer to
that which tilts toward
you generous with
your fusion gifts.
how you and i
both are now
middle-aged,
you—a star,
i—a mammal.
how your core
and my core later
will run out of heart,
but still will heat space,
by some genius process
far too difficult to explain,
leave space for a piano
part in this whimsical
universe, soft light,
maybe a little bit
violin just above,
a cello singing
under it all.
everything
spins.
round and
round we go,
nights and days,
seasons and ages,
remember that old
flame red-haired,
who smiled like
the sun does
yesterday.
portland, oregon / 3.20.2019
|
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30. |
night sixty three
02:03
|
|||
|
night sixty three
walk through this town,
this spring equinox fool,
this criss-cross electric,
illuminated sleeping saint,
its moon-haloed sky above
thirsty again for some rainfall,
this town got drunk on the sun,
a drunk shuffling some place,
wants its oil spills on a cover
of an art magazine, wants
to give you a sloppy kiss,
wants to light up a joint,
wants a midnight drum
solo in a real bad way,
this town wants your
everything, wants
a little bit of help
from its friends,
wants a beer,
a cigarette,
wants to paint
you with its streets,
you, an urban madonna,
holding what you conceive,
you, the song walking the line,
you, a winter blues in a raincoat,
you, this town's very last hope
for salvation, redemption, for
some sort of indefinite love,
you, a paradise bird flight,
you, a demon dancing,
this town wants you.
wants to make you
its bridge, its gut,
wants to wrap
its hands
around
you.
wants
to make
you a heart
origami from
a lunch bag that
glides up division
street, serene paper
in grease benediction,
wants to hold you in light
of its golden street lamps,
wants to scream hallelujah
to the stars in your tired,
so very tired, late eyes.
portland, oregon / 3.21.2019
|
||||
31. |
night sixty four
01:14
|
|||
|
night sixty four
midnight at baghdad,
marvel of projected light,
the make-believe life.
these empty streets and rare cars,
satellite shines up above.
sixty-four, meaning:
chessboard, new zealand, old age.
random facts saved up.
sixty-four nights that somehow
become a single long tale.
how quiet these feet,
at the place i, for the lack
of a better word,
call home, at least for a while,
how i learned invisible.
how disconnected
words seem when the mind is numb
just enough to mark
a place in this book, save for
later an archive packed tight.
portland, oregon / 3.22.2019
|
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32. |
night sixty five
01:15
|
|||
|
night sixty five
were i to hold my time in weary palms
like thirst holds water, spilling precious find,
like hunger covets each of fallen crumbs,
would i be gentle with its feathers' flight?
would i offer this living cup to your
streetlights and wet your asphalt satisfied?
would you, then, with tender smile, ask for more?
would you, an ocean, ask the moon for tide?
were you to hold my time, each day and night,
like morning lovers hold one another,
would you let it go out of your keen sight?
would you, a city moon, my howls gather?
were i to hold my time or you hold mine,
would we still be subjects to spring sunshine?
portland, oregon / 3.23.2019
|
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33. |
night sixty six
01:29
|
|||
|
night sixty six
the lamentations
of never taken highways
stare us down come night.
in stale rooms we feel the wind
on our faces, freedom lost.
we trade the ocean
for some quite important task
without asking heart.
it still beats but keeps its rhythm
with ticking clocks, tides forgot.
we save the kisses
for a more convenient time.
that hour does not come.
our lips, afterthought cracked thirst,
crave the water of mistakes.
would that we take pause
from our predetermined paths
kiss the ocean deep,
get in a car, drive farther
than our wildest far desires.
portland, oregon / 3.24.2019
|
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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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