"burrs" poems
plants do not require papers that state from where they came
they are caught and pulled by the bite of birds,
seduced by the between-legs of bees,
seized on the legs of the wind and animals by thistles and burrs
and the blessed are pollinated by the hummingbird
I do not know where I came from (really?) (really.)
or where nature and nurture intertwine within me, precarious balance from discipline and my genes
I twist bunches of grass between my fingers, feeling the good in a strain
racked on top of white bones, pushing sheets of freckled skin
out, spreading cancerous aluminums under my arms because
an artificial flower smells better during *** than human sweat,
what a pity, we are unable to reveal with the bursts of Walt Whitman (!) in
our own organic mechanism's ability to produce salt. The ultimate flavor.
I grin. Inhaling deeply while alone and unwashed, Whitman would've been into it.
Maybe I can find someone into it too. Someone who'll read me Henry Miller.
But instead I'll wear expensive perfume. I grin, again. Sardonically.
And I've been told I have a beautiful smile.
I should,
that smile cost blood and five grand for something cosmetic and quirky,
train-tracks over teeth, I now stain yellow with obsolete cigarettes.
I wait in the tropical heat, languishing while I bake, a freckle factory
and tan--adrift--awash with memories recalled by the smell of green
and the fearful hum of bees.
Why did I start smoking again?
I look at the red hummingbird feeder, and wish I could trade
standing still as a hummingbird, I lie and say I cannot wait.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 5:16 PM UTC
You're afternoon, my love,
and I'm forenoon,
and the twix between
burrs our saddle.
Eros, on your high steed,
we beseech your Olympian authority
to make mutual our latitudes
so next when the clock strikes twelve
our eyes, yours and mine, my love
shall meet within that same hour,
and there we'll dine upon the other.
Jan 24, 2011
Jan 24, 2011 at 7:47 AM UTC
High up above the open, welcoming door
It hangs, a piece of wood with colours dim.
Once, long ago, it was a waving tree
And knew the sun and shadow through the leaves
Of forest trees, in a thick eastern wood.
The winter snows had bent its branches down,
The spring had swelled its buds with coming flowers,
Summer had run like fire through its veins,
While autumn pelted it with chestnut burrs,
And strewed the leafy ground with acorn cups.
Dark midnight storms had roared and crashed among
Its branches, breaking here and there a limb;
But every now and then broad sunlit days
Lovingly lingered, caught among the leaves.
Yes, it had known all this, and yet to us
It does not speak of mossy forest ways,
Of whispering pine trees or the shimmering birch;
But of quick winds, and the salt, stinging sea!
An artist once, with patient, careful knife,
Had fashioned it like to the untamed sea.
Here waves uprear themselves, their tops blown back
By the gay, sunny wind, which whips the blue
And breaks it into gleams and sparks of light.
Among the flashing waves are two white birds
Which swoop, and soar, and scream for very joy
At the wild sport. Now diving quickly in,
Questing some glistening fish. Now flying up,
Their dripping feathers shining in the sun,
While the wet drops like little glints of light,
Fall pattering backward to the parent sea.
Gliding along the green and foam-flecked hollows,
Or skimming some white crest about to break,
The spirits of the sky deigning to stoop
And play with ocean in a summer mood.
Hanging above the high, wide open door,
It brings to us in quiet, firelit room,
The freedom of the earth's vast solitudes,
Where heaping, sunny waves tumble and roll,
And seabirds scream in wanton happiness.
2.8k
i waited there. i waited for hours. i waited for days. no one ever came.
seasons changed, leaves fell, the ground hardened and snow caked every treetop. and still no one came.
one day a woman with a child walked by. they were not who i was waiting for. they crunched along the leaf-strewn path, nodded a greeting toward me, and continued on. so i kept waiting.
it rained hard and often that spring. the path was unclear, and the trees were bent in exhaustion. flower buds wrapped themselves in blankets of green as they reached toward the soft, muddy ground, trying to find a bed.
one great tree stood tall on the edge of the forest. it was split down the middle, into two distinct twin trees, each competing to reach the top of the surrounding canopy first. the bark peeled as the twins stretched and grew. as the years passed the twins became tired, and so they stopped racing and waited instead for something new to come into their lives.
i decided i would no longer wait. i walked along the path, kicking dead leaves out of the way, their arms curling around their bodies for warmth. i whistled, i skipped, i picked flowers and weeds to make you a bouquet. i wandered for days and found nothing. and so i waited again for you.
there was a patch of violet hyacinth flowers along the path. they sprung from the ground and surrounded an old tree stump, as if shielding it from harm. their leaves were an impenetrable gate that could wait all summer, protecting their beloved, lost tree. the stump would always be safe. no matter how long it remained there.
in the fall, a twiggy stickling of a tree dropped most of its sun bleached red leaves. one fell into my hood. i took it out and twirled it between my fingers. the days were getting shorter, and seeing the sun light the remaining leaves was like watching the branches start on fire.
i wandered toward the edge of the forest and sat against the largest tree i could find. the tree was split down the middle, and each half was just as tall as the other. i decided this was the king tree of the forest. i fashioned two crowns out of the hydrangeas and mountain laurel i picked on my journey and hung them on the lowest branch of each twin king. i laid the red leaf i picked out of my hood in the crevice where the twins split from each other, and bowed to the king of the forest. as i marched away i hummed a tune i can only describe as majestic.
i am still waiting. the daisies and dandelions dance in the wind to pass the time. although there are burrs on my socks and bug bites on my knees, i will continue to wait. i'll wait for days, for years. i will wait for you.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 2:16 PM UTC
Before taking out a clean sheet of paper,
I hold before the blue of the window
a freshly-sharpened pencil pointing toward heaven
and blow the imperceptible dust
from the needle-tip
before getting down to business.
For in life’s long journey
few things afford greater satisfaction
than turning the crank
and powering the cylindrical burrs
of a mechanism which sharpens
the dulled mind of a yellow number 2 pencil.
In the silver pencil sharpener
I witness the marriage of utility and beauty
—a model for art and a purpose for life
celebrated each morning before this small altar.
2.6k
Tall prairie grass, wind-swept and
burnished gold, whispers with the
long-dead voices of all who passed
on this trail in their dream voyage
to Oregon, or California, or who
died, disease-ridden, exhausted, to be
buried just off the rutted trail
under a lonely stretch of sod
or cairned atop a barren lava bed.
A bone-white wagon tongue,
its carriage long ago disintegrated
and fallen into splintery planks,
laps thirstily at the dry sod along the
edge of the trail, finding only
parched earth and no water, burrs
and beetles instead of hydration.
More prairie than desert but still
more a place to leave behind, only
insects, lizards, hawks and the curious
chickadees seem to make it home,
this dusty stretch of history.
Hawks hover, then spiral effortless
high above, as they did so many years
ago, dark against a soft patchwork
of azure blue sky and creeping clouds.
The occasional click of grasshoppers
is barely audible in the billowing prairie
grass shaken by the incessant wind.
Dry bones of beasts and luckless humans
hug the edges of the trail, mute testimony
to the brutality of the westward rush
and the following of the Oregon Trail.
--
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 7:30 PM UTC
The crickets abandoned the yard
not long after you.
The evenings are too quiet now—
no big, dumb you exploring every
bush and branch,
snapping and snuffling
through the thicket,
coming home
with dirt on your nose
and covered in burrs,
goofy faced.
Just grass
and a sleeping garden.
The squirrels fear nothing.
Jan 8, 2011
Jan 8, 2011 at 5:07 PM UTC
Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown,
Of thee, from the hill-top looking down;
And the heifer, that lows in the upland farm,
Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm;
The sexton tolling the bell at noon,
Dreams not that great Napoleon
Stops his horse, and lists with delight,
Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;
Nor knowest thou what argument
Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent:
All are needed by each one,
Nothing is fair or good alone.
I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,
Singing at dawn on the alder bough;
I brought him home in his nest at even;—
He sings the song, but it pleases not now;
For I did not bring home the river and sky;
He sang to my ear; they sang to my eye.
The delicate shells lay on the shore;
The bubbles of the latest wave
Fresh pearls to their enamel gave;
And the bellowing of the savage sea
Greeted their safe escape to me;
I wiped away the weeds and foam,
And fetched my sea-born treasures home;
But the poor, unsightly, noisome things
Had left their beauty on the shore
With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar.
The lover watched his graceful maid
As 'mid the ****** train she strayed,
Nor knew her beauty's best attire
Was woven still by the snow-white quire;
At last she came to his hermitage,
Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage,—
The gay enchantment was undone,
A gentle wife, but fairy none.
Then I said, "I covet Truth;
Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat,—
I leave it behind with the games of youth."
As I spoke, beneath my feet
The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,
Running over the club-moss burrs;
I inhaled the violet's breath;
Around me stood the oaks and firs;
Pine cones and acorns lay on the ground;
Above me soared the eternal sky,
Full of light and deity;
Again I saw, again I heard,
The rolling river, the morning bird;—
Beauty through my senses stole,
I yielded myself to the perfect whole.
2.2k
I went hunting with my dad once
Around August or September
I was younger but old enough to remember
Windhowls of the deep forests
Sounded like owls everywhere
Straying from our camper - I didn't dare
It didn't take long
It was almost too soon
Anticlimactic & too simple to be true
Just planted ontop of the weeds
Just a few feet into the brush
Lay a pile of stuff
Disshevled and unkempt
Motionless and covered in burrs
Save for the sleight of a gust to weave thru its fur
The bones weren't white or polished
The cartoons had misled
It sat there in pieces & browning, instead
Skeletal, like random things tossed together
A velcro roadkill tumbleweed
Dried out and unable to bleed.
My dad told me it was a coyote
I thought,
There's no way that was a coyote - a coyote?
It's just a pile of stuff
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 1:16 PM UTC
Surely these surly bits
Must be burrs caught up in my
Makeup -
Making up reasons for
Why my spit was accidental.
I done been through a
Rough patch or two -
Crawling with these
Thorns in my knees
Across funky plateaus
That poke their chests out
In their scouts
For sunnier flora.
Though,
I assume their search
Didn't go over so well.
'cause these scabbings won't heal
Like I want them to,
Buried under gobs of
Ointment
That was supposed to take care of it
(And
One more bandage
Just in case).
I'm just moseying on through,
With my feelers out,
Making sure you're someone
I have to know.
In and on my way
Somewhere
In this crazy field,
Waiting for sunflowers
To bless my prayers
While I continue to
Make room for myself to
Slip past
Without being noticed.
I'm smiling so hard
To keep the soft-hearted
At bay -
Trying to avoid being forced
Into pinpoint relations
With clueless drifters
Who refuse to stay on their side.
They only mean well -
I know this,
I do.
But, the simple has yet to escape me.
Send your
Sympathies
To the weak ones,
Roleplaying
Alongside the meek,
For these are the creed
Who,
Without giving heed,
Deliver their lives
To bliss.
Sep 7, 2011
Sep 7, 2011 at 11:02 AM UTC
the Wonder no longer…
I no longer wonder
the whose, or is it the who’s, the whys, and even
an occasional wherefore art thou, and what’s their real name,
are they alive or passed, from whence they came, or,
the origins of their names, the name of that movie where
what’s his name fell in love with blonde from that tv show,
with the detective and the raincoat who always smoked
a cigar though was never seen with match or tobacco,
these mysteries that nagged, burrs that came mid-sentence,
causing grown people to curse and smack their head, now,
blessedly put to bed in seconds depending on the goodness
of your internet connection…
but now I wonder if the world is better off with instantaneous
information much of which is hooliganism and mis and dis,
made-up-as-you-go-along but now recorded as gospel truth
well recall the happy, romantic nature of falling in love across
the library table, secret smooching in dusty stacks of tomes, or is it tombs, that were never read but contained the secrets of the universe…
but never for too long, for repair and restoration I do take
a triple dose of Prevagen,
when and if,
I remember
Jul 9, 2023
Jul 9, 2023 at 8:19 AM UTC
I shot a glance past the pastures and the fields
And they looked so inviting
They said to me, “come walk among
Our thorns and our burrs in dim lighting”
But my eyes could not see the thorns
So I flew through the fields
And I stopped only after
after I felt the blood on my heels
One Hundred paces deep in a camouflage despair
I stood there in the cold night
With too little to wear
And said
“Why was I so easily swayed
by the cover of the dark?”
Because among these thorns and burrs
I’ve lost my one and only heart
A Chorus
Into the eyes of the night
You’ll awake without your sight
Into the eyes of the night
You’ll escape if you can fly
I saw a man with a lantern walk past the field
And called to him
But my secret was revealed
He knew of the thorns in the field
And he called back to me and said, “son if you need me
Then you must not need yourself”
And I saw scars on his hands, feet and side
And knew in my lost heart that he could help
Another Chorus
Into the eyes of the night
You’ll be asleep by first light
Into the eyes of the night
You’ll escape if you can fly
So I gagged on my pride and said,
“if you have scars how are you any better than I?”
and he replied, “son I have these scars
from when I found your lost heart about to die”
I said, “show me my heart
And I will trust that you are here for my rescue”
And the man replied, “Son
Your heart is the fields and the thorns among you”
A Third
Into the eyes of the night
You’ll believe that you are right
Into the eyes of the night
You’ll escape if you can fly
I hated him for what he said
And took a step toward where he stood
But fell upon the ground in pain
And there was no moving on
even if I thought I could
I shook on the ground in the cold and the burrs
And I yelled to the man with the lantern and said,
“how could I be causing myself so great a pain?
It seems to me that you’re the one to blame!”
The man replied, “Son! You ask of me a question!
And then cringe at the reply!
You do not use the pretty words!
And so neither will I!”
I thought then blurted back,
“so you will leave me here to die?”
he said, “Son I wish you life,
but you must need me to survive”
A Fourth
Into the eyes of the night
You’ll shake when you can’t fight
Into the eyes of the night
You’ll escape if you can fly
I lay on my only heart
Not to ready to say goodnight
I said to myself, “if this is me
then I will cause my own loss!”
And I heard the man begin to walk across
I said, “I cannot live in my heart
And my heart will never stop
And I felt the man begin trampling the crop
I said, “I cannot heal my wounds!
My heart has run me dry!”
The man leaned over me with lantern bringing light
Kissed me on the head and said,
“Son now you need me,
let the thorns and thistles die
Because if you need me, you must not need yourself
A Fifth and Final Chorus
Into the eyes of the night
You’ll believe you know what’s right
The only way that You’ll escape
Is to trust the man with light
Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 6:19 PM UTC
My armor is made of sunny smiles,
The smell of peonies,
And the breeze off of Lake Michigan.
It is made of guitar strings,
Of midnight kisses,
And snowflakes that fall gently on windowsills,
My skin is made of lemon juice,
Prickly burrs,
And tree roots.
It is made of razor blades,
Suspicious stares,
And window shades.
My soul is a tempest,
An angry sea that swallows all
Who have the gall to brave it.
It is a hurricane with a human eye,
Incomprehensible and strange.
It is the wind that
Rips the sails from vessels,
That no God or man can tame.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 2:44 AM UTC
~
Metamorphosis
Tracing footsteps in the overgrown field
where sunlight and rain drops date
Counting sticker burrs like lemon drops
in a candy counter display
Hitchhikers I remember them called,
lovers of socks and pant legs I think
Each with their own story to tell,
minute worries clinging to that last hope of life
The path, familiar but then again not,
it leads somewhere else now
Dragging shadows like kite strings,
knotted in the weave of its boundaries
Taking in my surroundings and releasing them
for another may find them useful as well,
I find still no sign of that last phrase,
spoken softly but misunderstood…is my understanding
A collection of stone and gravel stew
finds my shoe souls imaging in the dry dusty paste
Outlines of thoughts, perhaps poetry in oblong shapes and
perfect tread patterns stamped and posted,
showing no indication of my ever being here
Staring now at a cocoon on a lone branch, I see
what my life had been, dark and lonely, dreaming of the colors,
feeling confined but grateful for the transformation
You smiled, I smiled, my wings appeared and I flew,
as might a rainbow on a balloon, soaring until the tiniest speck
in the sky could be me or just something on your glasses
Light headed in a good way, free at last to define love,
the metamorphosis of my heart,
the changing of a man into more than he could hope to be,
seeking and finding that blossom,
sweet nectar, a sugary substance, love deep in the petals of life
Though, no one told me of the life span before hand,
no calendar hanging on my wall with circled dates highlighted in red,
nor a stamp of expiration anywhere on my heart,
good if used by…used by, funny I should write that now
as my attention rests still on this cocoon,
wondering where I went wrong,
somewhere on this path lies the answer…
for I once was a butterfly, just as you will be small cocoon,
at which time you will learn…
it is easier to fly with a heart that is unbroken
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 9:18 AM UTC
Couldn't be more grand!
They "catch your drift"
They understand.
The company of writers
The company of folks
Who "get" your pain
Laugh at your jokes!
They know the need
For being heard
Most people think
Our "play" absurd
And how expression
Can be burred
And inspiration
When it occurs
Can clear the mind
of weeds and burrs
They don't know
The written word.
Through a world
As black as pitch
It's a puzzle
It's a *****
I don't know
I can't say which
Is worse... the scratching...
Or the itch!
But you, my friend
Are part of me
You have my eyes
So you can see
Though we may bicker
And disagree
We are **poets
Our mind's are FREE**
SoulSurvivor
(C) 5/27/2015
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
Under crisp and deathless winter mornings
Ensconced in hollows in ash-grey burrs
Wassail godhead de proprietate probanda;
Here I left your voice last
Supine
In fog.
A challenge; memory affronts in
Spirals, sifting the useless to the
Apron somewhere at the crown.
This, rather, is where I left you.
The rest is seasonal.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 5:47 PM UTC
In the quiet cold wind
The blue bird stirs
It flutters its wings
Among pines and burrs
The sting of the night
Is fresh on the air
The absence of light
The death of a prayer
The blue bird flutters
Its eyes the only light
Silently it mutters
Feathers caught in flight
Its blue blur beckons
Briskly bustling away
Eyes set on the heavens
Flying for the break of day
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
The stars flicker and fade
as I walk into the empty field.
The moon is quietly sinking,
it’s time for night to yield.
Tall weeds grasp at my jeans,
desperate to have me sit with them.
But I have a different place in mind;
where I can feel the earth’s slow spin.
The dew soaks into my pants.
It’s almost like wading into a river.
A cool wind kisses my face;
I hug myself and shiver.
The grasshoppers and cicadas
quiet their music as I approach.
Only the rustle of grass surrounds me.
By the creek, a brave toad croaks.
Reaching my spot, I plop down,
turning to the horizon.
I’ve made it just in time.
The sun has not yet risen.
Damp clothes, bug bites, and clinging burrs
are a paltry price to pay
to gaze into the rainbow sky
and watch the birth of a new day.
Apr 17, 2012
Apr 17, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
An unethical practice to fully comprehend my existence in
space and time,
I took the world hostage and prodded its inhabitants with
probes and electrodes
only to find myself
conducting self-lobotomies in front of the bathroom mirror;
Gazing through the eyes of McCrae,
I ****** my hands into
pristine soil,
tore up roots and
soldier bones, creating a
garden of chaos
only to find myself
amongst red petals and marrow
strewn across green vision fields,
but the larks still bravely singing fly!
I splattered ******* across
impressions of Monet and Renoir
only to find myself
dripping like
Dali,
screaming like
Munch,
is this what beauty looks like?!
I passed up a
hitch on a
Heart of Gold
only to find myself
in the mire of a
Brave New World,
kicking at the dirt that sent
electroconvulsive shocks
up my spine,
is that a headlight reflection in my Bell Jar?!
I looked down the barrel of my fingertip guns, still smoking and
listened to the hollow wind of my self-inflicted universal entropy...
run.
Through a wormhole,
into the forest of wisdom where I reviewed observational data of my
chaotic string theories,
there I found myself,
rejecting the null and
assembling a fire of new Hope using the
burrs and thistles burrowed under my skin,
scratching and clawing at unethical practice.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
Father of my father
You taught me to drive
But I only drove barbed wire
Through your skin.
A median of blood
while fixing fence.
Intersecting your lifeline
It broke ground thumb to elbow
Blood trenches killing the grasses
Like the one you alone survived
A man too lucky to die
You mentioned at lunch.
Sharp points bent for
Hide and fur
Become your thorns and burrs-
Like Jesus Christ and mortal sin-
Marriage of farmer
And his implement
fortifying, dividing
prime cuts of Earth.
In the chapel of Monsanto’s fumes
Incense of diesel fuel
I prayed for a stall in the engine.
Reverse, rewrap the spool
Unfurl, go back to the beginning.
Jan 17, 2012
Jan 17, 2012 at 10:46 PM UTC
Aftershock
it's been another bad day I'm shakin like a leaf
my house collapsed and I'm looking for relief
the walls rumbled and rattled until it finally fell
I can still see the flames like I'm livin in hell
yes I told my woman I think I needed a break
thought she'd understand boy what a mistake
she seemed bored with me more than I with her
but when I made this comment I could see her fur
the hair bristled up on the back of her neck
her eyes fired daggers so I hit the deck
I bobbed and I weaved dodging her slurs
I could feel my shorts being filled with burrs
seems it's ok for the woman to be restless and bored
but you better not say this to her or you'll get gored
with those barbed missiles attached to her tongue
you'll be picking thorns out of you ****
yes the walls shook loudly from the aftershock
I think this is gonna cost me my head's on the block
I begged for forgiveness but it was to no avail
I handed her the hammer and a 2 penny nail
so I've been kissin her **** now for over a week
still lookin for a paddle to get out of **** creek
bought her a nice big diamond to ease my pain
it didn't work still carrying the ball and chain
so I shake my head and wonder why I'm so dumb
as I sit in the corner ******* on my thumb
don't stir the *** leave the lid on the crock
or you better be prepared for the aftershock
Gomer LePoet...
Sep 1, 2011
Sep 1, 2011 at 6:57 AM UTC
Outside my window, there is a bird
melting,
dripping from the sill
onto the cat waiting below,
feathers congealing in a tattoo of wings
across its shoulders
while the little claws tangle in its twitching tail
like burrs,
or perhaps just a reminder
of where you draw your strength from,
trailing behind you like empty cans
tied to a wedding carriage,
and tipping red and bitter down your throat
from your wine glass
as her father twirls the bride across the dance floor
and you wonder
what good the memory of wings does.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 11:11 AM UTC
trolling the doldrums for crumbs of gold
selling old caldrons to witless witches
wearing goblin teeth and dragons blood
earrings from Hot Topic
I languish in the Emo village that is the United States –
Self-serving ******** preserving their precious habitats
while habitually encumbering the global ecology
drinking biodegradable Starbucks in Buick Escalades
escapade-ing ***** raiders afraid of Mercury in retrograde
staying clear of the mayhem
and playing fear propagating madman
I stoke wildfires with gasoline
prodding the populace into premature *********** –
poorly formed ideas the norm
the scorn for the figureheads shows on the shoreline
boorish oarsmen, moored, pour their kerosene blood
onto the floor…. Sure,
pure Fuerer fodder, but newer shoes
were never shod
and the godhead faces west into the sunset –
druidic fluids escape wiccan slits
as the children of the Azure seas never get to be born
Pleaedian starships collide inside Antarctic subterranean dwellings
indiscriminate shelling of uninhabited caverns
as ravenous reptilians eat the jaw muscles
and left eye sockets
of organically fed Dairy cows…
espoused louse houses in Fall fashion blouses
trounce the infirm in clown shaped bounce houses
again, the sin goes unnoticed
as the blood of the innocents grants the elitists
another thousand years of power –
The tower on the hill still shines in the moonlight
on the 5th night of delighting the religious right…
mighty flightless birds self-assured and fed
on bramble burrs
purr at the sight.
bodies strewn all askew;
the moaning few with skin turning blue
true to the stories of old
as lack of oxygen blends with the biblical beast mark
and staving for air the impaired dare not to ask for Jesus aid…
instead they lay, waiting to be saved –
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC