"clans" poems
(For Eric Killmonger)
A little boy stared in the clouds
Forgotten tales screaming loud
His word small and nothing wrong
It all shattered after too long
Stories of cities that touched the sky
Clans of people untouched by time
Hope soon filled his boyish dreams
But not everything was as it seemed
One night he came home and saw
His father dead, struck down by claw
Weeping over his fathers head
He begged him to stay, not leave him instead
Shattered dreams and shattered hopes
He held the myth achingly close
Alone, no one there to guide
He locked his humanity deep inside
Battling for a way to free them all
Seeking power and in deaths thrall
The world had taken everything away
And all in one single day
So he would take everything away from it
His soul a star no longer lit
Now he lay there quietly dying
His enemy close, no longer fighting
The world it seemed would take him too
His glittering eyes full of rue
There was nothing left for him here
Breathing ragged and full of fear
Finally he took his very last breath
And slipped away as his life left
And as the sun left the sky
The night descended with a sigh
The little boy was dead and gone
His life a sad and weary song.
-Roguesong-
-Esther L. Krenzin-
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 2:38 PM UTC
Everyone is distracted by mundane, shallow things that they forget a bigger picture thats in all aspects of life.
**** you Clash of Clans and MTV.
But maybe I'm the shallow one because I put the blame on such a stupid topic.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
Im a calm, cool collected cucumber underneath this fandangled, wiry, wrinkled visage.
Ive escaped the clutches of the tangled snare of my image.
Where and when I belong and to whom is no matter.
I pass by groups and clans and grimace inquisitively at thier chatter.
To my ears its an alien clamour of clashing egos and look at me's.
They'd all be happier in a lonesome cross legged position enjoying the breeze beneath the trees.
With ease I float through my day passionately.
Expanding and contracting with the waves of existence.
I sway indefinitely.
Yield to and renounce the question arisen from the back of the mind "what does it mean to be me"
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
iPad, computer,
VCR.
Television, cell phone,
Movie star.
Clash of clans, minecraft,
COD.
Pokemon halo,
PVP.
Having fun, all day,
Disaster strikes.
Red bar, 0%,
Battery dies.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 10:43 AM UTC
in the year 2462 those with nails protruding from their palms
will talk in ancient tongues
& sway the tribes of men to eternal love,
& endless ammunition
of the soul.
spiritus.
kin, galactic
& the golden fire.
throb the saga of man,
into hip ****** illusions and combustive color schematas.
we bury our dead in flower clippings
or skull bits.
[skateboarding rises as the highest form of intellectual sport]
thrum and plum-bum the sewers of electric babylon.
hive city reaching past gasp and wasteland,
her lips ruinous.
cement slabs and coils of fault with
vast artistic possibilities.
these skate-lords from their heaps, their clans, augmenting
& rattling bone masks
grinding themselves into meat-bit heroics
& death.
their teeth are yellowy awoken.
this is all seen globally,
via tele-cast-com-core-mind-warp-tech.
or video.
dreams impact reality
impact dreams
in such
that the cathode cortex filter, invented circa 2222,
evolves into a demi-god, a solar charged demon of unlimited knowledge.
& it mutates the psychosphere of our mainstream public mind
with countless projected memories.
[streamed alternate realities]
fills the belly and the brain,
but all those unhooked are skating.
sweet meat market.
ghost harddrives.
poor leftovers called children of the once-was-men
& their poolside parties.
they leap the rubble of centuries old plastic icons,
their boards, their weapons, their seeds and spit.
they hang chains from their necks
& spew black flame from their sunshaded boot-click
lickings.
they drink from large bottlesof elixer distilled
on old flowers
& worship archaic cassettes.
cults of cyborg women with gem-tipped-blade-additions
carve wooden planks from
groves of great oaks.
great oaken powers.
their creators chew gummies and bend time
to uphold
a proposed history of perfection.
they master pong from their crystalline towers,
& hire mathematicians to write
conceptual skate-deck algorithms,
solely for fun.
non-profit.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 5:49 AM UTC
The Strength of The female carrying a nation in her womb, leaders, criminal master minds and you.
Feeding clans, communities and villages, nurturing earth. Sheltering the youth, in storms of the future ahead, wiping your tears strengthening your heart again.
She is always there and has The Hands of warmth, holding you tight to lands of joy
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 2:11 PM UTC
if you drill down,
past the hair,
flesh and bone.
into my mind
where the ego
and id reside.
then turn to the left,
and follow the i.q.
down the alley,
you will find
a place.
where on thrones of
cogitating thoughts,
king big questions asked,
reigns in conjunction,
with, queen yet unanswered.
they watch with interest benign,
over a field of an eternal tourney,
split roughly down the middle
by a chasm quite wide.
on one side
of the gorge is arrayed,
the banners of philosophy.
at the vanguard,
the epistemological knights;
plato, descartes, ferrier,
kant, hume,spinoza
and bosanquet.
the major forces ride beneath the banners, of their schools of thought.
followed by the lesser lights,
and those,
obscure or forgotten,
who walk at the rear,carrying the gear and
to set the tent poles.
as to the other side,
that is given to,
the seminaries of religion;
bhuddism, taoism,
islam, hindu, juche,
rastafarian, sikh, diasporic, parsis, tenrikyo,
judaism and christianity
with all its clans.
they array themselves in cadres,
according to belief.
and to the rear,
there rides,
an interesting guerilla band,
of intertestemantals,
about 3 or 4 hundred years wide.
these are the few who are accounted for,
when god spoke nothing,
or perhaps
a lot but the message just got lost.
they number in their disparate clan,
alexander the great, ptolemy, the hellanic masses, seluecids, maccabeans, hasmoeans
and pompey the great,
not all, but the noteworthy.
across the divide,
by arrowing thought
were fought rallies of acumen
and battles of wit
and occasionally,
a persipacious fire was lit.
but there is one more player,
to mention.
apathy,
the great hulking ******
who for want of gumption, and get up and go,
sat crouched,
(quite uncomfortably so)
on a spire.
made of mediocracy,
cemented by woe,
in the iddle of the rifted abyss.
unable to decide
with which team to go.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
it's woman power here
in the clans of the spotted hyenas -
the women are bigger and the males fear;
fathers are kind to daughters
so at least the daughters will be nice to them
so women really just give orders
and the male hyenas obey
with mirth and laughter
Did you take the garbage out?
yeah, ha, ha, ha, yeah, yeah, yeah
Did you put the toilet seat cover down?
yeah, ha, ha, ha, yeah, yeah, yeah
Have you mopped the floor?
yeah, ha, ha, ha, yeah, yeah, yeah
Is dinner ready on the ground?
yeah, ha, ha, ha, yeah, yeah, yeah
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
Finger soldered brilliant new gold band
proudly circling nuptial sun
orbiting eclipsing the clans
completing a family connexion
with others ovoid chipped but fondly funded
wearing thin on hardened blue veined hands
some waving some proclaiming all belonging.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 6:13 AM UTC
Children of Fire
Clans from near and far
The time has come.
The ominous is approaching.
Soon everyone of us
Will fear to be in the end
The last of our kind.
So rise up!
Stand together!
As allies.
As brothers and sisters.
Follow the call!
So that we can ignite
One last time
Like a phoenix
From the ashes
Bevor we expire forever.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
Granny gave me moccasins
To run and play in.
She got them from the pow-wow.
They made me swift
And light on my feet.
She told me
“Remember who you are”
Granny gave me a dream catcher
For my good dreams to fly through
And the bad ones to get caught in.
She got it at the pow-wow.
It made my nightmares go away
And gave me dreams about my ancestors.
She told me
“Remember who you are”
Granny gave me a totem pole
So that I would know our seven clans.
She got it from her father.
The Ani-gatagewi keepers of our land
Ani-gilahi and Ani-waya the peace and war chiefs
The Ani-kawi and Ani-tsiskwa earthly and spirited messengers
Ani-wodi and Ani-sahoni the creators of medicine
She told me
“Remember who you are”
Granny gave me a book
With the words of my people
And their stories.
She got it from the pow-wow.
I learned about our earth mother
And how we grew from her *****
She told me
“Remember who you are”
Granny gave me a day
To wear my moccasins.
She took me to the pow-wow.
I saw the people from my stories
And dreams.
My people and clans.
She told me
“You are ᏣᎳᎩᎯ ᎠᏰᎵ (Cherokee)”
*The seven clans of the Cherokee tribe: Ani-gatagewi translates to Wild Potato Clan (keepers of our land), Ani-gilahi are the Long Hair Clan (peace chiefs), Ani-kawi is the Deer Clan (earthly messengers), Ani-sahoni or Blue Paint Clan (medicine for children), Ani-tsiskwa or Bird Clan (spirited messengers), Ani-waya is the Wolf Clan (war chief) , Ani-wodi Red Paint Clan (medicine).
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 10:19 AM UTC
that's all you have.
Ive got words too but I don't use them
to describe my "inner landscape".
they just get in the way of "experiential knowingness"
of my personal energy field of unconditional love,
they just get in the way of being my beingness,
for I am where there are no edges.
For I am and equal individual independent and autonomous part of the essence of the Isness of the Universe,
which you can immerse yourself in,
merge into and become as one with me,
like I am eternally one with you.
if you can drop the Mind and Conditioned Identity in the head,
of the body that you are incarnated in temporarily,
just for this your latest lifetime,
and it could be your last lifetime as a human being..
that's the only condition--drop the Mind--let it go--you don't need it--
but it needs you to deceive and manipulate.
The Mind needs you to survive but you don't need the Mind to survive
for you are as I am and we all are eternal and self sufficient,
beyond edges and dimensions.
Just imagine the Universe and all that is in it inside your head,
impossible you cry but that's truthfulness in action.
I know who you really are even though Ive never met you
and am unlikely to ever meet you,and when I say you I don't mean your body--.
I don't mean your "name" or curriculum vitae or certificates on a wall--or photographs of a face among billions .
I mean you--the individual Isness--that small part of me that you are--as I am that small part of you that I am.
The body is just a vehicle made from mere flesh,to get you from point A--birth--to point B --death--.
it has attributes and emotions and possibilities but it most definitely is not and never can be YOU or me--.
Youre incarnated in it in order to realise your true nature as a small but equal independent individual and autonomous part of the essence of the Isness of the Universe.
You are,like me,the Isness of the Universe incarnated for this lifetime
in the body that surrounds you but unlike me you are
in the grip of Mind permanently--unless you dissolve Mind consciously.
Minds are the obstacle to union with the Isness of the Universe
and I am the Isness of the Universe incarnated in this body--
just like you are--and so the mind in the head of that body is
the obstacle to union with me.
The only difference between you and I ,female or male,
is that I am permanently Mindless by choice
and you are struggling towards
becoming permanently Mindless--unknowingly.
My struggle to become Mindless
and Conditioned Identityless is over thankfully,these last few years.
I live in the body but the body is not me.
I use the body for my many pleasures
but no pleasures of the body can compare to the pleasure
of being in union with the Isness of the Universe.
One can only be in Union with the Isness of the Universe when one is Mindless.
Words are absolutely useless for describing my inner state--
for my inner state is not of the body--
it is not made or nourished by the body--
my inner state can only be experienced.
Words cannot set you free--they can only make you a lifelong prisoner of Mind--the controller of what should be your words--but arent.
And individual Minds must coalesce into GroupMinds
which are families and relations and clans and tribes and races and nations and religions and politics and all the other groups that prevent you from becoming your true nature which is that of being a small but equal,individual,independant and autonomous part of the essence of the Isness of the Universe.
You have always that encompassing edge to your body--the skin.
I have no edges--my skin is permeable and insubstantial.
I am the Universe extant.
I am the Isness of the Universe.
www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 12:58 AM UTC
JESUS emptied the devils of one man into forty hogs and the hogs took the edge of a high rock and dropped off and down into the sea: a mob.
The sheep on the hills of Australia, blundering fourfooted in the sunset mist to the dark, they go one way, they hunt one sleep, they find one pocket of grass for all.
Karnak? Pyramids? Sphinx paws tall as a coolie? Tombs kept for kings and sacred cows? A mob.
Young roast pigs and naked dancing girls of Belshazzar, the room where a thousand sat guzzling when a hand wrote: Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin? A mob.
The honeycomb of green that won the sun as the Hanging Gardens of Nineveh, flew to its shape at the hands of a mob that followed the fingers of Nebuchadnezzar: a mob of one hand and one plan.
Stones of a circle of hills at Athens, staircases of a mountain in Peru, scattered clans of marble dragons in China: each a mob on the rim of a sunrise: hammers and wagons have them now.
Locks and gates of Panama? The Union Pacific crossing deserts and tunneling mountains? The Woolworth on land and the Titanic at sea? Lighthouses blinking a coast line from Labrador to Key West? Pigiron bars piled on a barge whistling in a fog off Sheboygan? A mob: hammers and wagons have them to-morrow.
The mob? A typhoon tearing loose an island from thousand-year moorings and bastions, shooting a volcanic ash with a fire tongue that licks up cities and peoples. Layers of worms eating rocks and forming loam and valley floors for potatoes, wheat, watermelons.
The mob? A jag of lightning, a geyser, a gravel mass loosening...
The mob ... kills or builds ... the mob is Attila or Ghengis Khan, the mob is Napoleon, Lincoln.
I am born in the mob-I die in the mob-the same goes for you-I don't care who you are.
I cross the sheets of fire in No Man's land for you, my brother-I slip a steel tooth into your throat, you my brother-I die for you and I **** you-It is a twisted and gnarled thing, a crimson wool:
One more arch of stars,
In the night of our mist,
In the night of our tears.
2.4k
On a bleak and frosty night
Vexed and weary two travelers rode
Along the pathways-craggy and ragged
From Nazareth, trudging miles on end
Full pregnant, was she with child
Mary -the ****** suffused with Spirit Holy
Divinely ordained to bear the Godly Prince
Conceived before, she had known her spouse.
Abiding in Heaven’s Providence n’ care
They had rode past miles behind
Far too fatigued by the trip
Mary, now badly needed a place to rest.
Heading towards the blinking lights
Not far from the city’s guarded gate
Joseph sighted a tavern-small
Perched high on a tiny hill
A sense of relief beamed past
They have come at last to the journey’s end
Finally found a place to rest!
An interim home away from home
Tethering the donkey outside the gate
Joseph helped Mary alight the brute
In eager search, he hurried inside
With Mary, following with faltering steps.
But the couple, to their dismay found
Within the tavern, room, there was none
For many a man had gathered round
To halt there on that freezing night
Sundry folk from surrounding lands
Had reached Bethlehem for the yearly census
Tradesmen selling clothes and cheese
Nomads of varying clans and clime
Petulant camels, braying donkeys
The place was littered with man and beast.
The tavern small, so packed to full
Had no more space to harbor the crowd
Mary and Joseph, though dejected,
Were encamped within a manger- warm
With tender concern, Joseph joked,
To ease the strain on Mary’s face
“Gaze upon this palace of gold
Where a son shall soon be born to us”!
Mary smiled a gentle smile,
Humored by her husband’s jest
Under the gaze of tethered hosts
In veiled privacy of the midnight gloom
She gave birth to a radiant child,
The great Redeemer to all Mankind
The star studded sky suddenly glowed
With a rare brilliance never beheld
And a celestial voice trailed along
Delivering ‘tidings of joy’ to the globe around
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 7:11 AM UTC
The skyline was beautiful on fire
All twisted metal reaching upwards
The water wars
The great migrations
The barbarity of a thousand roving clans
The infertility
And the old used as meat
Had made love a distant memory to those remaining
But tumbling over scraps
Navigating through shards
Gnawing at withered roots
Lapping at acrid streams
We went on
All we had done was hope better
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 8:10 PM UTC
i recall
with a fondness
blurred by years
the town of
my formative years
in the mountains
the heart of the table lands
dissected by a highway
it crouched, along the sides
of a shallow valley
i remember a greeness
that came from the trees
eucalypt and pine
most prominent
in my mind
and the grass that grew
lush and tall
only to be mown
each Saturday morn
i remember
churches and schools
the wide expasnses
of playing fields
and parks with
hurdygurdys and swings
i remember the pool,
that too turquoise
rectangle,
that glistened
with wet invitation
and on the highest peak
the stolid grey water tower
lording it over all
i remember rough tarmac
under my feet, running from
light pool to light pool at dusk
and frost on picket fences
in early mornings,
like delicate sugar candy
solidier braving the early sun
our house, small on a large block
with hydrangea at the front
wisteria overtaking the fenceline
an at the back door a concrete slab
painted fire engine red,
but faded to overipe watermlon pink
poplar trees garding the back
and the smell of onions
burning on the grill
hill's hoist with tennis ball
and pantyhose
standing to silent attention
and in the forground
my brothers and clans
playing football, league
with passion and
burgeoning skill
all this comes to mind
on a cold winter's day
i may of come a long way
but my heart still
ties me to there
and the memories
make the knots
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 9:05 AM UTC
You're risking naught, an annihilation of worth
Wasting and encouraging moments to rot. Decay.
Values friendship
Twisted morals dipped in deceit.
Not satisfied with boundaries
Chasing infected affection
swirling in the smooth crevasses of backwash around emptied wine bottles
Impressionable, emitting the most tenacious
of the F word
Fake
Fake and Selfish
It isn't narcissism when you drown yourself
in the pits
No permission, no inhibition
As lazy as the Greeks
who never made a move to climb the mountaintop
and defy their Gods face to face
Dependent and ******* support from Clans
because you're terrified of this world
At least I"m honest with my decanter of
harming thoughts.
obsessed and overbearing, flesh crawling
use my being as subject matter and
mold it into paperdoll play toys
like gold eye-liner
its a party trick
seek solice when grimacing down a bottle of brew
bumpers in the bowling alley
a Life Alert sort of living
You claim to haven no fear
but I see your throat clench
start living
admit the defeat
a proud coward
lilly livered, yellow belly
shift
shift between a fable and nerve
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 1:38 AM UTC
Folksy blokes, like ya struttin’ ya thang
If you’ve come out of da Grand Ole Opry
But, won’t stay around for any old music sang
If it’s causing their head, to bob up and down and go all floppy
While rugged mountain men riding in some country rodeo
Can just step right up, to a Appalachia recording studio
Put down several tracks and become a worldwide pop star
They sing about hillbilly ways, while cogging or flatfooting from afar
Talking ‘bout wild hogs, gators, foxes & how so many more
Taste so great, using leftovers as bait & making real men roar
Old fables, told through pictures and patterns, upon knitted quilt
Even showing the feuding days of the Hatfields versus McCoys
From both sides of Tug Fork stream, with many unemployed
Although Asa and Devil Anse, said, ‘they hadn’t much guilt’
All because of a judge and 5000 acres of unusable swamp land
Once owned, by a close kissin’ cousin named, Perry Cline
Who didn’t even get any blood on his hand
They started a war, that could’ve been stopped
By a bottle or two, of good ole mountain moon-shine
Both clans almost wiped out, if last man standing had accidentally dropped.
Sep 26, 2019
Sep 26, 2019 at 10:40 PM UTC
a soft grey blanket flows through the peaks of green pines
silencing the celestial voice of the moon
while steel horses restlessly paw, panting gas fumes
the volleyball desert, at first glance barren
reveals a complex terrain of mountains and cigarettes
to the watchful eagle's eye
a wooden temple towers, built on artificial ground
cool stone poured into aesthetically pleasing islands
a forty square foot-print
a holy site of human ingenuity
with offerings from the clans of Miller and Busch
lying scattered like bones on the monolithic plain
anbaric lamps imitating miniature stars cast shadows at night
and the once vibrant world takes on unifying hues of blue
I guess the old adage that
"misery loves company"
is indiscriminate of nature
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 5:10 AM UTC
I now know why the Willow weeps
A tragedy of love it's memory keeps
For once a young man and a young maid
On tender grass beneath branches lay
Though pledged by birth to another
From clans they hid to be together
Thus the gentle Willow was their choice
Meeting beneath, till love they could voice
The Willow held these secret lovers dear
So would lower it's boughs when they drew near
Then tucked away in the Willow's womb
Could lay as one, yet this love was doomed
For jealousy lurked within the Pines
Spying the lovers thus entwined
Behind their curtain of slender limbs
He swore the maiden would yet be his
And so it came to pass one day
As the maiden softly maid her way
To their Willow deep within the glen
She saw the branches did already bend
Timidly as she did draw near
A sound of sorrow met her ears
Parting Willow branches to look within
A dampness did touch upon her skin
The Willow was shedding sap laden tears
For the young man in death was near
It was an arrow that had been used
A potent poison it's head infused
The maiden now blind with grieving mist
Removed the arrow, held it clenched in her fist
Whilst cradling his head he drew his last breath
She did plunge the arrow into her breast
And so it is that this is told
The Willow's grief could not be consoled
For unable to stop what had befell
The young love it had hid so well
With it's will broken as the lovers lay dead
The Willow, it's branches, never again spread
And because it is the memory it keeps
it is to this day that the Willows weep
Featured Poem on Poetry Soup, April 4, 2010
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 3:25 PM UTC
They are not an invasion,
But a new equation,
Going forward,
A new nation.
Going forward,
We can embrace,
A different face,
In a new place.
Going forward,
New plans,
Different clans,
In a new land.
By Patrick Comfrey.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 4:54 PM UTC
You know the type?
The ones that sit alone,
with their heads buried in books,
not even blinking an eye as
the midday trains go roaring past
as the school girls all hold
down
their
dresses.
With their blonde hair,
they all think they can be Marilyn Monroe.
Or Barbie.
But they're not fooling anyone,
and the boys only want
the trains to go screaming past again.
You know the type.
Always in clans,
looking like clones.
They're happy. I think.
At least they seem to be.
But the girl that sits by herself,
with her music loud enough
to drown out auditory reality,
she isn't.
And she doesn't even pretend to be.
And if she closes her eyes,
the visual world disappears too,
and reality no longer exists.
Then,
if you look closely,
you can see
a smile form.
It might only come along
as frequently as a blue moon,
but it's sure to make
a blind man weep.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 4:57 AM UTC
A human habit universal,
our measure of success by possessions to envy.
An infernal curse—commercial purveyors, trinkets
of gold and gem,
shining blinking, fabrics glistening;
the value of thing manipulated by
them insect kings.
By lion's fang and butterfly guise they rule,
a hubris deceiver upon their shoulder
obscuring their likeness to those
serfs upon whom they
cunningly demand servitude, otherwise
be starved, put out, forced to watch their
future falter—sons and daughters
failing in flight, their
wings clipped prior first spanning.
Locust clans spurred to fight over resources, who
sell and buy back nature's bounty once
formed anew into advertisement's subject.
Oceans emptied of fish, forests becoming myth,
uplands turned to wastelands,
abomination fog a spherical prison choking
earth's inhabitants—the marketer's dowry
paid for marriage to a precarious economy.
Royalty made rich at cost of labouring spine,
but worse—
our home and thereby our hope we consign.
By their futile attempt to survive,
the locust instinct to consume,
until all is gone we contrive,
the inevitable a meet with our doom—kings
with stained glass wings to follow soon.
So small are we amidst this vast existence;
the ambitions of men
barely bigger than an insect's significance.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 6:55 PM UTC
Ive watched you weap
Bemoan in subtlety, without reason
Attempt to give light on an obsidian subject
Ive seen you bicker and cross swords
A struggle felt for miles
Have our confrontations meant nothing to you
Does venom foreshadow death
Ive seen you pass away
Day by day, its all the same
But am I the mad one?
Questioned by clans
When all I see is taunt discourse as if we're docking on long suppressed dreams
If it had been somewhere else, we'd hide a fixed eye to the occasion
Load the cartridge
Pull the trigger
Ignite cannons
**** the innocence
Have we lost our minds
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 1:36 AM UTC