#bar
I hear the silence,
that the canvass night sky sings.
Beneath the moonlight.
5d ago
May 30, 2026 at 2:33 PM UTC
There's no peace to be found in the middle of a party,
you don't want to be at.
The strawberry laced chemical fog of vape chokes the air,
Overpowering the familiar fragrance of spilled lager and drunken tales.
The shot girl pushes her tray toward me. I don't want one.
The television screen is brighter than the future facing many in here,
The debt piling up in cost of living crisis Britain
As the three in one pay day plans come knocking
and the car insurance rises yet again.
You really ought to look both ways when you pull out.
Brawls break out, one two three
A mosh of angst and teenage delirium
Still trapped in the bodies of middle aged men
That never got to the nirvana of being comfortable with themselves.
That **** shot girl won't give up.
The group of addled lads push into my space,
Throwing a punch they don't mean and
sneering love lines to the bar maid
that definitely hasn't heard that one before.
I don't think even she thinks her Next jeans are the stairway to heaven, pal.
A fourth goal rolls in, it's time go. The dream of the gathered mass
flies away on the muggy early May air
quick as it came. back to the beginning. square one.
Not for a while yet.
The bouncer clears the floor.
And still the shots are sold.
May 8
May 8, 2026 at 5:15 AM UTC
(after midnight, with bad intentions)
A chubby moon slouches behind the bar,
spilling silver like a drunk who overshares,
round with secrets,
and just a little out of breath from existing.
Life has been unkind to her
you can tell by the way she wears it:
like a dress one size too small,
stitched by regret,
unzipping itself in all the right places.
Her beauty refuses discipline.
Buttons wave white flags.
Fabric negotiates, loses.
Curves stage quiet rebellions,
the kind that make saints forget their prayers
and philosophers misplace their arguments.
Even the soul, poor thing,
kicks at its ribcage
like a tenant behind on rent.
I thought
why not be useful?
Why not commit a small miracle of distraction?
So I leaned in,
voice soft enough to be mistaken for trouble:
“What’s your name, darling?”
She smiled
not kind, not cruel,
but the sort of smile that has ruined better men
for less.
*** she said,
polished in an English accent,
as if the word had gone to finishing school.
*** I repeated,
rolling it slowly on the tongue
like expensive sin.
“Beautiful. Truly poetic. Shakespeare would blush.”
She raised an eyebrow
history itself briefly reconsidered.
“And what,” I asked,
“does one drink in the presence of such a masterpiece?”
She leaned closer
close enough to rearrange my good intentions
her voice now a conspiracy:
“Something strong,” she said,
“because subtlety clearly isn’t your strength.”
I nodded, wounded but willing.
“Fair,” I said.
“Then pour me whatever makes bad decisions feel like philosophy.”
She laughed
and for a moment the moon behind her
looked jealous.
Apr 16
Apr 16, 2026 at 9:00 PM UTC
Never alone, never at home, what do you seek?
Always out, always about, always looking sleek.
How hard must it be, having someone to hold,
When everything you touch turns to fools’ gold.
Even the people you hang with don’t care,
When you’re away, or if you’re really there.
I only ever see you feeling inferior,
As you struggle deep inside to be superior.
Order imitation crab, and claim it tastes true,
Always alone, yet never at home, is this you?
As you sip on your drink and try not to think,
Of your loneliness...sit back, let the caviar stink.
Olives and Bombay, whiskey with a cherry,
How feng shui that you don’t sway my way.
It must be scary how much weight you carry,
Living in a picture you don’t portray.
Mar 10
Mar 10, 2026 at 9:14 PM UTC
He’s the keeper of our lives and pays late.
On Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Monday.
My mind and finances are in a—Wait!
For God’s sake—it’s already a Tuesday...
(Radio Silence.) It’s biweekly now.
After you promised us that you’d go back!
Then I was told to keep better track, HOW?!
You’re the one who holds no financial slack.
I understand you’re trying to survive.
If you’re going through it, tell us the plan.
If you don’t have one, we’ll try to contrive,
But communication is key, “Boss Man.”
While you were out running around, we worked.
A year and some change, we kept this place fed,
No care in your mind, your member perked,
For some young tail and some, “Pretty mean head.”
Stop eating us alive.
-Bank-Account-Thursday-12/26/24-
-556.07 (Car Payment)
-190 (Progressive Insurance)
-55 (Cricket Wireless)
Available balance: -68.36
------------------------------Push the loans back. No, I can’t…
-Friday-12/27/24-
-200 (Care Credit Loan)
-80.10 (Affirm Payment)
-40 (overdraft fee)
Available balance: -388.46
------------------------------ I can’t ask Dad for help again.
-Wednesday-1/1/25-
-40 (overdraft fee)
+1500 (Paycheck Deposited)
-1, 000 (RENT)
Available balance: 71.54
----------------------------- I’ll try to eat ramen this week.
-Thursday-1/2/25-
-50.31 (Walmart)
Current Balance: $21.23.
---------------------------------
What a great “Keeper” of our lives.
Mar 10
Mar 10, 2026 at 9:27 PM UTC
let’s play pool
so I can watch you under the bar lights
the way the pool stick slides
between your fingers
the way your muscles flex when
you pull your arm back to aim
the way your face looks when
you are concentrated
focused
determined
let’s play pool
so I can see the way your lips
wrap around your cigarette
and the way your eyes
gently close
as you breathe in
the way your hand grazes mine
for more than an appropriate time
as you hand it over to me
so I can take a smoke too
but the real buzz I’m getting
is from being near you
let’s play pool
so we can exchange music
and I can take home
another piece of you
through my headphones
after we part ways
at the end of the night
let’s play pool
so I can get just an hour or two
of alone time with you
Feb 16
Feb 16, 2026 at 2:51 PM UTC
It began like a revelation:
Clouds peeling back to ****** the supernova.
The songs, the recitations, the memories—
Incantations.
Look at that black hole in your chest
Sipping at me like a rusted golden chalice.
Six more.
Drinking songs at an unfamiliar dive bar in heaven.
I was holding nothing.
I am performing for no one.
My head aches in this lonely tavern
Where neon signs are the only halos left,
And spilled beer smells like patchouli.
The bar napkins and ***** mirrors—holy relics.
The rituals here are louder than Don’t Stop Believing.
There are strange, noir angels
Singing karaoke to the darkness,
And I sometimes wish we were as real as my loneliness-
That loneliness-
The hangover of my youth
We all dared to be loved
before this place discovered us
The bar at the center of this urban universe
Always closes.
The silence clings to the effervescent spirits
Disguised as patrons,
Leaving them to embrace strangers
In a desperate, unusual prayer.
Feb 11
Feb 11, 2026 at 2:44 PM UTC
I never expected you to come.
As I flail away in hopeless drinks.
You lift my head as I pass out
And rested it on your shoulder.
And I mumbled nothingness.
I held my breath
As I felt your warm presence.
Gentle skin dried my tears
While I withered away.
I could hear your still heart
Washed away, heaving its last life.
And, just as I had wake,
You already walked out the door.
I couldn’t ask you to stay,
Knowing I’d stain your beautiful nature.
So I’ll reminisce about it instead, poorly.
Of course.
Jan 25
Jan 25, 2026 at 8:50 AM UTC
What’s new is bright, what’s new is loud,
shining high above the crowd.
The poems sit and hope to be
seen by more than just a few.
Reads feel fewer, pages thin,
less time spent just dropping in.
Maybe change has shifted sight,
maybe fewer souls online tonight.
Still the words don’t fade or flee,
they wait for eyes that want to see.
Jan 8
Jan 8, 2026 at 4:00 AM UTC
The alleys reek of *** and pine trees,
neon bar signs croon a
twisted Christmas Carol,
people grin, dragging bags of
anxiety and presents,
slamming doors behind them like
a drunk drummer boy.
I sit at the bar, empty glass, empty heart,
watching snow waltz across the
lonely sidewalk.
A twisted Santa staggers past,
bells jangling
like he’s calling the reindeer
home, lost and late.
Somewhere, a child's joy is ecstatic.
Somewhere, a man cries, eggnog-smeared,
remembering the wife.
The stars bring both together,
a tender lullaby across cities and towns,
beneath the jaded sky.
I *** a drink and raise my glass,
to broken hearts and bent spirits,
to busted ornaments and the nativity scene,
missing two wise men sitting on
the old record player,
to beauty beneath the grimy snow.
Well, it’s the season—
love and sorrow tied up in a
red bow for the night.
Dec 22, 2025
Dec 22, 2025 at 7:57 AM UTC
I. The Purple Smear
Because the hand did not pause.
Because the cracked, dry hand, reaching from the cave-mouth,
Did not see K’na fall.
Gk’har. A name unwhispered,
He saw the cluster, bright against the grey thorn,
Purple, like a bruise, promising water, promising fullness.
The belly’s taut drum.
He plucked. He ate.
The juice, a sudden, joyful night.
Then, the dance.
Not the dance of the successful hunt,
But the twitching dance, the dance of the white foam,
Eyes wide at the indifferent, yellow sun.
O! the column of generations, the laughter stopped.
The hand, unclenching, dropped the remaining fruit.
And the line,
The long, unbroken thread,
Snapped in its first link.
There, in the dust, by the grey thorn.
Finished.
II. The Hall of Echoes
A line of ghosts who never drew a breath.
A chronicle of shadows.
IS THAT ******* TALKING ABOUT HIS GRANDFATHER AGAIN? GO GET HIM, IT’S TIME.
But time for what?
The son (the Second) was not.
He did not learn to chip the flint,
He did not paint the bison on the wall.
His was the empty cave, the unlit fire.
The Other, a whisper,
Never saw the metal, hot and red,
Poured from the stone. He never forged the blade,
Nor rode the first, stiff wheel.
The Other, a farmer,
Never bent his back to Caesar's tax,
His field unplowed, his olive tree unplanted.
The thunder gave no rain.
The Other, a hollow space
Where a man should be,
Never saw the silks of Cathay,
Never tasted salt from the far, black sea.
And the Other.
(O, the clever one, the one who maps)
He was not İzci.
He was not the Recon, the shadow on the horse,
He did not ride the high Balkan pass
To count the shining spears.
He was not.
He did not lie to the Pasha. He did not survive.
His name was never entered in the register.
HEY BUDDY, C’MON IT’S TIME TO GO NOW.
The Other, a silence,
IS HE ALWAYS LIKE THIS?
Never saw the great dome rise above the Horn,
Never bowed his head in the Sublime Porte.
The Other,
(He who might have been the traitor, the clever one)
He was not hain. He was not a coward.
He was not a hero.
He was the empty uniform.
The mud of GALLIPOLI did not stain him,
The dysentery did not save him,
Because the cannons fired,
And he was not there to hear them.
He did not die in a warm bed, hating the waste.
He was not.
The Other, a photograph,
Un-taken. He did not see the Fez discarded,
Did not learn the new, hard––but necessary––letters.
He did not build a new house
From the old stones.
The Other, my father.
The man who never met my mother
On a summer evening,
Under the linden trees.
No coffee. No shared glance.
His hand, unheld.
His son, unconceived.
III. The Unbitten City
And I?
What shall I do now? What shall I do?
I am not.
I am the echo of the eaten berry.
I am the man who does not walk the Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter noon.
I am not the breath asking the question.
I am not the finger typing on the key.
Someone else is here.
A different line, a different blood.
One whose father saw the purple foam
And turned,
And ate the bitter root.
But my line?
The story of the İzci?
The story of the hain?
The story of the caveman who paused?
Lost.
OH MY GOD! I AM SO SORRY.
Lost.
The thunder is silent.
The question is the answer.
The berry was eaten.
There is nothing more.
Can I get your n-number?
Metehan Baydemir
06.11.2025
Nov 16, 2025
Nov 16, 2025 at 2:45 AM UTC
The bar is dim enough
for ghosts to sit without being seen.
Soft lounge bass.
A woman’s voice on the speakers
complaining about how unfair wanting can be—
I know that tone.
I have lived behind that tone.
The bartender leaves the entire cognac bottle
like he already knows
I’m not here to sip politely.
Outside, the world is fences and fields,
people mooing across distances
they never cross.
But here—
the air is warm,
time moves like cigarette smoke,
and I don’t have to explain
what I survived to breathe this soft.
I swirl the glass, watch amber light spin,
and think:
If there were gods,
they’d sit here.
Not in churches.
Not in bright rooms.
But in the quiet places
where honesty doesn’t echo—
it settles.
I am not praying.
I am remembering.
The music says, it isn’t fair.
I say, it never was.
And yet—
here I am.
Still drinking.
Still breathing.
Still mine.
Nov 7, 2025
Nov 7, 2025 at 10:54 AM UTC
Soft, a familiar seat.
She walks in, fire in summer heat.
A pact we made, a whispered vow:
No touch, no kiss, just here and now.
We clink our glasses, amber bright,
And talk of dreams that fill the night.
Of love we sing, of *** we jest,
Avoiding truths we keep suppressed.
Once a month, this sweet escape,
A ritual, a carefully shaped
Perception, a joy we share.
Six days until she will be there.
The wait, a burn, a silent plea.
To want so much, and never be
Allowed to reach, to hold, to claim,
The bittersweet and silent game.
I value her, this bond so true,
But oh, the ache of wanting you.
Sep 7, 2025
Sep 7, 2025 at 6:52 PM UTC
Hunger pangs, keep scrolling
The acids make me suffer
Whether you enjoy men or women
You need to drink the buffer
Jul 18, 2025
Jul 18, 2025 at 11:50 PM UTC
Sickly sweet memories
play back
in a sugar coated mess
of— chocolate wonder,
and
a pile of laughing snickers.
Jul 18, 2025
Jul 18, 2025 at 2:45 PM UTC
dismember
us meeting in the long dark bar
made of old wooden doors ******* closed
we nerved about conversation and drank
the gruff dense social den drew in
grew around us
pushing our minds about like
the ember remains
of a sotted campfire
ploying mother lens
we shuffled into the other
cleaved a little and uncleaved
then tuning out the winters night
we did together leave
May 19, 2025
May 19, 2025 at 6:03 AM UTC
“I look at you,” he told me, “and I think to myself; now here’s a guy whose got it all: he’s over fed, has a nice watch on his wrist and his shoes, although not my style, are brand new. The only thing he doesn’t have are troubles and worries.”
“bartender,” I shouted, “I’ll take one more and the tab.”
“hey man what about me,” he asked, “mind topping me off?”
“and another one for the poor sap next to me.”
“you see what I mean,” he continued. “you can afford to buy drinks for yourself and for others. as for myself, they forced me into a war I didn’t support and I also got my *** shot off for a cause unknown. I was stripped of my emotions, gutted from my life, they sodomized my psyche, carved the dream out of my head and I was never given a chance at having children or a future. and all this happened before I ever held a beer or tasted a cigarette or had a woman in my bed.”
I didn’t bother responding
in hopes that he’d get the hint
but as expected, he was as
clueless as my ex-wife
and as he carried on
with relentless persistency
each word dug in like a cat scratch
and all I could do was clench my glass tighter and tighter to contain myself.
“I’ve been spit on, kicked out, beat up and let down,” he further continued. “the streets are hard and unkind and everywhere you go you’re unwanted and everything is locked. why do you think I pour into these bars late at night? to drink? naw man, I just need a place to go, a roof over my head you know?”
that was it.
I had enough.
I finished my drink,
got off the stool
and headed toward the exit.
“hey buddy,” he shouted, “can I get another one for the road?”
“no.”
“just one more?”
“NO!” I screamed.
“c’mon man, you’ve got everything and I’ve got nothing. what makes you better than anyone else?”
“now look here you bumbling idiot…”
“but…but…but…” he interrupted.
“I’ve heard your tales of woe and now you’re going to listen to me,” I said sternly. “I look overfed because of poor diet and lack of exercise caused by working 60-80 hours a week with no time to take care of myself. I have a nice watch and new shoes but it came with a price. I’ve traded in my freedom for comfort, my time for materials and any chance of love for success. you say I have everything and you have nothing? I say you’re wrong. you’ve got something I no longer possess and that my friend is soul. don’t lose that. don’t buy into the mold. don’t conform. don’t become like everyone else. most of the people you see in here have imprisoned themselves into their own personal hell. that’s the way society wants it. but you’re free. truly free. and another thing… don’t worry about sorrow. everyone’s got problems and nobody wants to hear about it. why do you think people are in here? for the enjoyment? no, there here to forget. just. like. you.”
**** you ******* I don’t need a lecture from you or your cheap advice. all I need is a ******* drink!”
…and with that,
I walked out into the
dark and empty streets
where they greeted me
with their silence.
May 8, 2025
May 8, 2025 at 3:04 PM UTC
My journey has come to an end,
A halt in the life we comprehend.
To death, my friend,
A favor I wish to extend.
I wish to live once again—
Not too long; that would be a pain.
Just one day, 24 hours to gain—
That would be a fair bargain.
"Just what would you achieve?
What salvation could you receive?"
Don't ridicule me with lies.
Forget hours—24 minutes would suffice.
I would show you a life
Where thousands of lives thrive.
A life you've never seen,
One whose end couldn't begin.
I will show you life so serene,
Not even found in the Elysian Green.
So answer my pledge,
Allow me to cross the ledge.
Then I'd meet my weeping sweetheart,
Relive every event before I depart.
I'll meet my friends at the bar again,
Encourage one to live, another to laugh,
Help them cope with the pain.
And a kiss to everyone I'd blow,
For the love and care they show.
Things I couldn't do, I'd do now.
To nature's gift—my life—I'd bow.
There's more I wish to say
About how I'd live, even for another day.
Apr 4, 2025
Apr 4, 2025 at 6:46 AM UTC
At a bar near Grand Central Station,
Free flowing alcohol and conversation.
The steady sound of champagne glasses clinking,
In celebration of new beginnings.
Strangers drunkenly exchanging digits,
With the hope of a quick backdoor exit.
Feb 1, 2025
Feb 1, 2025 at 8:15 AM UTC
Bear in mind – as I conjured an image of a bear in my mind,
both indulging in a few rounds at the bar; raising the bar to
dizzying heights, till one of us might succumb to intoxication.
A rather fishy scenario, devoid of any fishy breakfast beneath
the bear's breath, reminiscent of a grizzly confrontation.
Yet, we diligently tailed our cocktails at the counter –
chasing after them without any count of remorse.
For we both loathed the winter that awaited us beyond those
bar doors, devising a scheme to drink deeply enough to drift
into slumber and embrace the idea of hibernation.
I guess that’s what you get when a man has cocktails with
a bear at the bar - only to discover that by the end, I was left
with a solitary bear, while my wallet lay stripped of its treasures,
solitary bare.
Dec 23, 2024
Dec 23, 2024 at 3:15 AM UTC
(A Christmas vacation vignette)
Lisa and I choppered onto Manhattan island yesterday morning. We’d both felt toasted—so we took naps—and yay! We awoke recharged.
Later that evening, Lisa and I were at the ‘Elsie’ Rooftop Bar, in Manhattan, waiting for Lisa’s boyfriend, David.
Ok, man-friend? More age appropriate I suppose, he’s 27, but that description doesn’t have the same bf slap.
Dave’s a Wall Street M&A guy and they’ve been together for over a year - a future for them seems very real.
Slinky, jazz-like versions of secular Christmas favorites were playing somewhere and it’s a groove I slipped into immediately. We had reservations and I’d misbegottenly hoped for a five-star, breathtaking city view, but the indoor tables turned out to have these uncomfortable, high-backed, bench-like seats that face away from the windows—WTF? I made a mental note to check website pix in the future. The place is in need of some serious feng shui-ing.
Disappointed, I asked for a side table where there was, at least, a pitiable skyline view and I placed my iPad, volume down, on the table so I could side-watch the Thursday Night football game—hey, I’m not meeting MY boyfriend, ok? As the official third-wheel, I figured I’d need a little entertainment.
After a few moments, a waitress came by and she paused to look us over with a cat-like indifference that signaled she was better than me, better than us really. She was just cooler.
I was delighted—why am I drawn to people who look down on me?
I suppose I need years of psychoanalysis—but who’s got the time?
I glanced at Lisa. We know each other at a cellular level. With a milli-second of lash flutterings and eye dilations, I asked “are you getting this?” And she affirmed that she was. Because we’re cyborgs. A couple of cyborgs.
Just kidding. We’re not cyborgs, neither of us. We wish we were sometimes—think of the advantages, you could complete college in a blink—wirelessly.
Anyway, back to the narrative. The waitress reminded me of when I was starting high school and my mom and I toured colleges, how snooty the Harvard people were, even though I’d been accepted and offered a free-ride scholarship—I mean, shouldn’t we all have been one, big, self-congratulatory snooty-group together?
(Of course, I chose Yale because the people were totally friendly).
“I better get used to it,” I side-bar’d Lisa, who got the reference to my upcoming, year-long, master's program at Harvard—because we’re cyborgs. I handed ‘Laura’ (our snooty waitress was tagged) my Black American Express card, which got her attention, and said, “start a tab please—someone will join us—run a 40% tip too,” I added with a smile. She practically jogged off to get our drinks and hors d'oeuvres and I turned my attention to the game, you know, to catch up.
I love Pro football—it’s not really fall without football—is it? Even though Tom Brady retired. This all goes to say that I’m a pro football ****** Lisa likes it too, though she’s not totally obsessed.
Just after Laura brought us our martinis and ‘poached lobster’ slides, a random, well-dressed man (he was wearing an expensive Brioni, wool linen silk suit), 35-ish, receding mousy-brown hairline, high-ball glass in hand, took the opportunity to stop by and chat. “SO,” he said, in a deep, jolly, ice-breaking salesman’s voice,
“You girls like football?”
I decided that the suit was too shiny for a Brioni—was it a Zegna?—I idly wondered.
“We’ve boyfriends,” Lisa announced, almost apologetically, nodding to include me—in case he missed the plural. Undeterred, he swiveled my way—as if he needed a second opinion—and asked me,
“What do you like about football?” He sounded somewhat condescending to me, so I did what I always do with condescending males—I played the ‘ditzy-girl’ card, “The costumes,” I answered.
“The uniforms,” he gently, fatherly, corrected—before rocking back a little on his heels and sipping his drink.
“And the hats,” I updogged, but before he could digest my reply, David, Lisa’s man-friend, arrived on the scene.
“Sorry to be so late,” he said, giving me a little, jiggly, 4-finger wave, shedding his coat and giving Lisa a smooch on the top of her hair.
The salesman wordlessly took his leave.
It’s a night on the town—let the 3rd-wheeling begin!
.
.
Songs for this:
Diamond Dave by The Bird and the Bee
You Belong to Me by Vonda Shepard
.
.
And a Christmas Playlist - because the big day is 8 days away!
http://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_24.mp3
Dec 17, 2024
Dec 17, 2024 at 2:00 PM UTC
The hour is an uneasy,
the hour is exasperated,
it paces from one room to another,
taking great strides
to pull me by the wrist
and take me straight to bed.
Not yet,
give me a second a said.
I thirst for a swig
of what this bar has to offer.
Neat! The hour is impatient,
no chance for me to relish
growing old,
no way to feel my insides glycate,
it wants time back,
this itching hour.
Sep 26, 2024
Sep 26, 2024 at 12:13 AM UTC
as he sat soft beside me.
“Sure,” I said, with ill feeling.
My instinct was not to cross my friend,
I had too few left.
I nodded to the Ape behind the bar and he obliged
with one lemon & ginger and one green tea.
He knows his regulars well
and we know we’d need to wait til later for anything stronger.
“Look,” he said, and I turned to see
a gap and I counted the two teeth that were missing -
no, not missing - he opened his hand
and there they were, both accounted for,
safe and secure in his grey leathery palm.
“Look,” he repeated, (a little slurred this time)
and turned his fist so I could see
the missing skin and the bruises
that gave testimony to his amateur status.
His ****** grin and wet laughter
shook the silverback back into action
and we got a plate of malted milks.
Like I say, he knows his regulars well
and he’d listened when I told him
where he could get a regular supply,
direct from Staffordshire, in the UK.
“Lo-ok,” he said (more hesitant this time)
and lifted his shirt a little to reveal the knife wound,
replete with knife, buried to the hilt.
“Loo-,“ he started to say, as he slid off the bar stool
taking his tea with him, the porcelain shattering on the stone floor.
I winced – the cups had been a gift
to the Ape from my mother.
‘Why should the chimps get all the best crockery?’ she’d explained.
“I’ll pay for the breakage,” I said
and the Ape nodded his furrowed brow
as he swung round to grab the dustpan and mop.
I drank my tea,
counting off the friends that remained.
Mar 2, 2024
Mar 2, 2024 at 1:25 PM UTC
A woman walks into a bar,
alone on a Friday night,
daring assumptions,
orders a pint
and gets out her book.
That's it. There's nothing else to write.
What? Not clichéd enough for you?
Oct 6, 2023
Oct 6, 2023 at 1:17 PM UTC