"clunky" poems
i wasn’t feeling okay
so i put on my overalls and went
outside
to wander around my backyard,
trekking around in clunky rain boots
as i hummed and tried not to think
i like to write
little notes
on the leaves that are now
changing colors
and when i’m done
i let them
fall
so i can flatten them
beneath my heel
till the small words
are crinkled and no longer legible
amongst the dirt and grass
and so desperately,
i wish i could
let the thoughts in my head
fall
to the ground
so i could flatten
these
pitiful feelings
beneath my heel
until they were no longer legible
amongst the hurt and hopefulness
in my heart
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
The knife cutter calls in the summer noon
on his bicycle he pedals his wheel
sharpens all that rust too soon
knives past prime too blunt to ****
Glues his hair the sweat of roam
his cheeks bear long uncut beard
pray he finds a wanting home
that needs to sharpen not just word!
If comes his way a timeworn knife
he sits to roll the clunky wheel
works to feebly sustain life
bowing to the smallest deal!
He is no poet no skilled scribe
an old hand from a vanishing age
belonging to a losing tribe
that still gives knife cutting edge!
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
If you were a corpse accepting cremation
I would be the flame
that lavishly licked your flesh,
the heat, heaped for your hair on a pyre
the last peril your boney body submits to,
making the air all around stink of you.
Forget the fact that you corrupt my mind,
it’ll only work out if your thoughts stink of me.
If for one second during
your self worshipping, wistful stares
into a mirror that drips a musty condensation
that lingered from your skinny, ****
torso after your morning shower, you
stand there smile *******
yourself with puckered lips and
un-dilated pupils, flirting with
camera phone pixels you think to yourself;
* Should I post me on myspace?
Should I send a text message pic to myself?
Should I forward it to that guy that I met
to make him think that I’m burning for him?*
If for that second I could be but that spark,
an after thought flare that gets you to want
more than what it is that you got,
where would you go?
With whom would you make yourself over?
I’m waiting for the morning your ashes
wake next to me; smoldered and spread out over my
mattress and under my breath, and
your eye lashes charred with clunky mascara
crumble as you replay in your silly head
the late mass I celebrated last night
when I exhumed and inhaled
that same condensation;
Little taste droplets of you then exhaled
from me to your golden tin flesh
that burned you to ******
Because of my tempered tongue you
cravingly bathed with,
because of your hair I feverishly wrapped
round my fists as
my head altered and smoothed out from whiskey
bounced waves of frivolous
thrusts pulls releases,
pushes twitches friction
in perfect timed fashion
between your radio
antenna thin legs
and your rib meat torso
you forced my lips unto.
That will be the night
you will come.
Yeah, that’s right
SEE YOU MMM-hmmm,
I will see you melt on that night.
And it will be your cremation.
Sep 22, 2010
Sep 22, 2010 at 1:09 PM UTC
I want to go to the circus with him and fail at the tricks at home
I want to dance in the rain with him and jump in puddles in gumboots
I want to climb trees with him with binoculars and look over the lake
I want to build a pillow fort with him, with Disney movies and chocolate
Something took a hold of me right in the moment
I accidentally got lost in those eyes first time looking into them
His smile made so happy and I think he noticed because he smiled more
I literally felt sparks and a warm fuzzy feeling in my heart
I didn't plan on this happening, far out
I swore to only fall inlove with myself
Too much pain and love is so overrated
But it was beyond my control
And then cupid's arrows kept hitting me
Just a moment in the pouring rain
I saw myself and a billion adventures together in him
A deep urge to hug him came over me
He's so dorky and cute and sweet and innocent
He wears a big clunky watch and is good at maths and computers
He does acoustic covers of Of Monsters and Men songs
He runs around like a maniac in PE and bashes up his friends playfully
There is no definition and there aren't any rules for love
If you think a person is just the bee's knees, that's love
I'm only young but I know an awesome person when I see one
And God will always hold my heart but man, this human... I adore him
I feel stupid for letting another person contain some of MY own joy
I feel so scared that I fell for just the idea of him like I have once before
But ugh, words can't describe how content my heart is
I refuse to say he erased my pain, because let's not be naive, but wow
One day I hope we get to conquer the world in our pillow fortress
<3
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 6:57 AM UTC
It started with existence
just a lowly perspective of a mute
time when I was able to
make sense of this pressure
make sense of why
you are now here to guide me now
on this looser journey; a lonely crabapple
still grappling at shriveled skin creating a face
that I still
cannot
distinguish.
With the end of presence as we know it
you have finished, rightly
in my dressing room
bright screen lit up
but only for a moment do I dare look away.
It started with you, and it will end with you
Closed off from me, shortly
your bioluminescence radiant,
your perfection incomplete.
I’ve known you for six straight years
or was it five
just enough
construed construction, a bloated
piece of mind that left me free to wander
aimlessly down I path I cannot recognize.
It was you who caused my blunder,
keeping me awake every night
with your brightness and distraction and amiable personality.
I decorated you with bits of me,
tangled in and out like woven webs of cybernetics
optimal connections, you died twice and I revived you.
But that was in the past
and you still cling on, for how much longer
I shan’t not know.
Only that what it means to exist
when I should be letting go.
I have to face the trust of reality and its weakened points;
that dangerous, well-formed world I find myself in.
I hope you can follow me
as long as you are able,
my clunky plastic compadre
your heart is metal mixed with other
kinds of fragile contraptions.
I know this end to my happiness is not your fault.
You were there when I needed you most,
even if you are a tool of innocence turned foul.
I once learned all of existence from your knowledge,
gleaned myself raw
trying to let you help me
understand myself.
We are not truly over because I am bound to you
somehow
even though I’ve used you for my own gain
abused your trust and have my own heart slain.
All I ask is for you to give me a chance
to make it right
again.
And then I can move on to better things.
And not be obsessed of what you think of me.
And find a way to pull myself together.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 7:25 PM UTC
Metal contraption, I dutifully climb into you each day as the sun rises
and drive your clunky frame through the hills of a crowded campus
to face the questions and stares of the kindhearted and heartless.
I prefer you in short increments and, on weekdays only please
but I’m strapped into your metal ways at almost all times
and jostle along with each bump and crack in the sidewalk.
I hold tight to your rubber arms as we travel down the steep hills
and plow you through old man winters blinding white ways
for long stretches, in between short, fitful summers
I’m not pretending that I never curse you, because I do,
for sticking in gravel, grass and grout, breaking down
every Monday, or your front wheel falling off again
and yet you carry me faithfully to and from school and home
where I jump to the floor and embrace freedom and movement
until I climb again from bed and into mobility and its adventurous ways.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 4:40 PM UTC
Your crooked smile flows upward
and I can see it from the ground.
Haunting myself with
a film teacher's creature feature
in black and white,
an old orchestra for sound.
You said you'd get nervous
when on our clunky telephone;
saying that customer service
could hear the fibers
in your voice
rustle like tall, dry grass,
with a wind whispering through
confirming, with every breath,
that you feel alone.
We'd recite fifties sitcoms:
Honey, do you --
do you have the keys?
Well, gee whillikers,
I could use someone to
open me, close me, and
dispose of me, please.
I write this for no one,
which is the category you fall in.
Sincerely,
signed Issues,
P.S. The television
is in color,
and I don't miss you.
- There ain't hope in the U,
the S is for Show me your soul,
the A is for Always forget:
the United States of
Killing it, Killing it -
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 11:48 PM UTC
I don’t want to know about your ex
Don’t want to know about your daddy
Or your ******** coworkers or customers
Or your catty friends
Stop
Tonight begins the future
Some believe a wall against your back
Creates desperation
But it can also spark urgency
Clear the phlegm of memory
It can protect
Your vulnerabilities
Focus your vision
When getting jumped
First thing you scan for is a car or wall
The fists and kicks might ****** down
From everywhere like stony blizzards
But the pain is peripheral
Not ethereal
You’ll have a chance to dodge and block
Stop
Tonight begins the future
A future empty of splinters/thorns/shards
Of muscle aches, fatigue, or tremors
Of gooey *** tar heroine, clunky *****
Dismembered torsos, sliced ears, dangling eyes
Red **** and blacker kisses
In turn I won’t burden you
With my ********
Won’t convert you into an airport carousel
I won’t unload
My unkempt baggage
Upon your frail façade
Turning turning turning
In circles
As weary passengers shuffle
To and fro
Frantically
Beneath buzzing phosphorescent
Stop
Tonight begins the future
Open and free
Like air over mountains
Like clocks un-tocked
Like silence hovering around the corner
A seed buried in ****** soil
A dream light has yet to touch
Tonight begins our future
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 5:53 PM UTC
I stepped out of my comfort zone,
And appeared in a ship caught in a storm;
I wanted to tell a story through prose, never known,
But my mind froze and searched somewhere warm.
I went to leave the delicate flower of poetry
In which I have found comfort within the lines.
Fields full in bloom with poetic prosperity.
The flow of stream keeping rhythm in time.
I brought my bare feet to observe from rough peaks,
Overlooking the blank page expanded with power.
Preparing to leave on this journey for weeks,
Leaving the comfort of my sweet fields of flower.
Setting doubts aside, I set my pixie soul to sail,
Becoming narrative of chunky, clunky prose.
Daunted and haunted on a foreign ship to prevail,
I heard poetry beckon through bitter winds that arose.
Though I do respect prose, it is not a flow that I know.
It expands endlessly, like the heart of the sea.
My narration is rhythm, and wherever I go,
The flowers of poetry call back to me.
I soon jumped ship to be at peace where I roam,
Among the enchanting patterns of flowering fields.
I listen again to the trickle of the river, I'm home,
Channeling poetic prosperity this pixie wields.
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 8:47 PM UTC
Leong's watching TikTok on her laptop (as always) and she asks Lisa (a NYC girl) “Are you familiar with the the “downtown girl” aesthetic?”
Lisa’s dismissive, “Yeah, it just looks like Urban Outfitters grunge to me.”
Leong explains, “It includes headphones and it’s supposed to be a Lower Manhattan style.”
“Yeah,” Lisa snorts, “Because Greenwich Village and the Lower East Side are SO cohesive.”
Lisa considers herself an Uptown girl (like the song) even though 59th Street, where she lives, is the border between Uptown and Midtown Manhattan. I’m learning that these distinctions are culturally key to New Yorkers.
“And,” Lisa adds, “why would someone wear, and lug around, giant, clunky headphones when you can use AirPods??”
“Amen sister.” I proclaim and even Leong nods in agreement.
“Later, Sunny, Leong and I are on a study break, eating salads and talking about who we hope Yale invites to the next “Spring Fling” concert. We aren’t being realistic; we’re covering who we wish would come. I’d named Charlie Puth, “Kat-Tun!” Leong squealed (A Japanese boy band - apparently Chinese girls LOVE their boybands) and Sunny countered with Ed Sheeran.
“I don’t like Ed Sheeran,” I mumbled, making a yuck-face.
“Why no Ed?” Sunny gasps with shock (She’s a big Ed fangirl).
“I don’t know,” I shrugged, “he’s a star by all measurable metrics,” I admit, “but,” I fade out.
“You want my theory on Ed hate?” Sunny offered, “He’s beyond talented vocally - whoever your favorite artist is, Ed’s probably not that far behind. He’s a stellar song writer and he’s making hit after hit; do you want my theory?”
“Too basic, too popular?” I guess.
“No, he’s not appealing to the gaze,” Sunny states.
“The gays?” Leong questions, stepping back into the conversation.
“No,” Sunny corrects, “the gaze - G-A-Z-E, he doesn’t try to look pretty all the time.”
“Ha!” I snort, “Gaze, I thought you meant gays too,” as Leong and I chuckle together.
“No,” Sunny laughs, “nothing like THAT. Ed’s just not trying to be a heartthrob, he knows that’s not his core strong point - and that’s why he’s discounted.”
“Like lesbians don’t comb their hair or wear makeup and wear pajamas to class” Leong observes, “they don’t want to attract the male gaze?”
“No, we’re not imbued by the male gaze.” Sunny states, “Ed just wants to lowkey.”
Dec 14, 2022
Dec 14, 2022 at 10:51 AM UTC
It was 3 degrees outside
She wore a purple fuzzy headband that seemed to cover her entire head
Her large and puffy grey coat went to her knees
A grey turtleneck underneath
And those clunky duck boots
While everyone else smiled at the weekend at 3 on a Friday
She looked confused
I could only imagine what she was thinking about
It was 58 degrees outside
The headband gone
She has blonde hair that’s up in a ponytail more often than it isn’t
The coat is gone but the turtleneck is still there
It’s striped this time
She still wears the duck boots since the snow is melting away
And there are puddles with every step
She’s smiling and laughing on the phone
Trying to explain directions
I can only imagine who she’s talking to
I can see it
I can see my future in the way her hair is flipping back and forth as she walks
I can see my future in the way her face lights up when she laughs
I can see my future in the way she curls her hands into her sleeves
I can see my future in how she tries to avoid a puddle but then steps into a deeper one
I can see my future in the way that puddle ripples around her
I can see my future in the way the melting snow seems to glimmer when she passes it
I learned she got the headband for free once
When she spent too much money at her favorite store
Her grey coat is a family company she’s obviously loyal to
The grey turtleneck is from the place she got the headband from
Obviously, she tells me with an eye roll and a laugh
The duck boots keep her feet dry, even if they’re not very warm
She looked confused because she was leaving economics, her hardest class
She had just learned a new concept that all of her classmates understood
But for some reason, she couldn’t wrap her head around it
She likes that her hair is blonde
But knows it’ll turn brown one day, like her mom
So she gets highlights put in, knowing it won’t help, but hopes anyway
She’s always wearing turtlenecks because she’s always cold
It’s from the same store as the other one
Obviously
The duck boots are her favorite and her feet like them too much to wear other shoes
She’ll never admit it
But she steps in the deeper puddles on purpose because she likes how they splash
She was on the phone with her friend from high school
Directing her to the lot to park in
She’s staying over this weekend
I was right when I said my future was in her
It’s in the hair
The jacket
The turtlenecks
The headband
The boots
The confused look
The happy one
The eye roll
The laugh
The puddles
The snow
My future is her
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 8:18 PM UTC
there was a rip in my stockings,
inner limb, long and exposed.
"i like your tights"
clunky boots, shorts, a skirt, a dress.
i was wearing them when your fingers played
with my insides.
legs long enough to drown in,
did you imagine them tangled, bruised?
my thighs are my gems, they will quiver,
damp under the sheer, ripped, flowered, polka-dotted
material.
daddy, lover, with your palms along
my calves, your teeth ridging the edge.
baby boy, with your nails tearing my hips.
i will be your black-eyed beauty.
the night you spoke my name in inked lights,
the night your lips tasted like cigarettes and chocolate,
my tights shredded.
knee high socks and blood red lipstick,
i’ve been wearing nothing but ripped
tights.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
Defunct steam punk
on the top bunk
smelled skunk and shrunk
into a trunk.
Funky crunk juice
with floating chunks
of dunked *****
shot from a Monk’s junk.
Spelunker, a drunkard,
bucks ****** up truck drivers
hiding behind tree trunks…
the schmuck.
Clunky blunt, fronted
musky, and held by a hunk
flunked the test
and was debunked
in Timbuctoo.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 4:55 PM UTC
For almost two years we’ve been sitting on a conveyor belt
Heading straight for the potato peeler, which will
Slice right through our thickened skins and puncture our vitals;
A cold cruel machine designed to sit
In industrial kitchens
Waiting for Sodexo’s next batch.
But we—
We’re from the farmer’s market and we are not
Four inches in diameter and six inches in length.
We are clunky. We are knobbled. We are
Purpleyellow and we are waterysweet.
We are not
Iowabland or a poem of rhyming couplets, yeah
We are free verse and we
Had *** because we’re friends.
Or maybe because
We love each other
In one way or another.
Or maybe because we’re lost
Or maybe all of the above, yeah—I don’t know, I just know
The potato peeler won’t accept us for a second.
That mechanical grip, slicing slicing slicing,
A fumbling tumbling in countless browntowhite progression,
It won't accept
Our color, our flavor, our beautiful swirling eyes,
And for a while I didn't either.
But whether we have two more months on the belt or twenty years,
I know that our knobbled progression to nowhere
Will have been one of everywhere.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 8:30 PM UTC
X's dim bedroom featured two tones: olive skin and rind of lime. Like her walls, her sheets and comforter clashed. The contrast in color reminded me of 80's clothing.
In her room, X smoked cigarettes that tasted like a mechanic's finger. A clunky radio played 24/7.
"Do your parents know you smoke in here?" I said.
"What?" She said.
Her parents were phantoms. She barely knew them, which makes me barely able to describe them. A week ago, I asked what they looked like. She shrugged and said she'd check the side of a milk carton.
*** was the only thing that connected us. We took turns touching each other like we were being dared to run our finger through an open flame. I said I loved her. She said not to be silly.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 9:57 PM UTC
The man on the phone
told him that rent was due
by five o'clock
rent which was not there
but five was seven hours away
and he had this feeling
that seven hours was a good distance
to put between him and Richmond
so he packed up his clothes
his old jeans and plaid button downs
and his typewriter
that old clunky son of a *****
which made such sweet music
he stuffed it all into a backpack
and left his keys in the apartment
as the door closed for him
for the last time
He left Virginia behind
and headed west
he spent a night or two in Memphis
drinking cheap bourbon from a plastic bottle
and dancing with some pretty little thing
as Johnny Cash played over the radio
He took his car
and passed through
Fort Smith Arkansas
but he didn't stay too long
He made a few bucks
cleaning glasses in a ****** old bar
in Oklahoma City
sleeping in the small room
upstairs
He made it to Amarillo Texas
and thought that he might just stay
under the dead pan
Texas sun
but he was restlessly being chased
by his memories and fears
His car broke down
in Albuquerque
so he hopped on a train
heading to Phoenix
but Phoenix was tough
and alien
and he got footloose
real quick
He hitched out of there
with a ****** cardboard sign
which read simply
"West"
and he met some strangers
and made some new friends
before he found himself
in fallen angel country
Hollywood heart breaks
and smog covered starlight
with no more road left to travel
he'd been coast to coast
he settled down
like the pioneers who came before him
and burned his maps
just a *****
road weary,
traveler
with a typewriter
and dusty worn jeans
a traveler who made his way home
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 11:31 AM UTC
The silky strings of empathic poetry
wind thier way through my mind to my fingertips,
In turn each caress hums electricity
and glowing reverberated letters form
the beauty of eloquence reserved for greats, restrained.
Instead the satin pearls lay sprawled
gathered with elcectric tweed and tied with pixel yarn
with clunky pebbles inbetween ,
the pearls calling to each other
to dance together on the electric string,
and the pebbles beg for polish
in order for thier beauty to sing.
I however,will not.
For they are eloquence and beauty to me,
and are as my creative souls expression
faultless in the delivery of my first truth,
in all art born of soul and heart
simply
elegantly evocative in the highest perfection
of the electrons clumsily,
imperfectly formed birth of
inspirations.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 8:54 AM UTC
Sleepless in Seattle on my mind and in my feelings,
Making me feel moody and 90's,
Chunky belts and colorful, dark sweater,
Old airports in family comedies,
Big clunky landline phones,
When Harry Met Sally and I watched it on a plane for the first time last summer.
Baroque in my headphones and 1950's swing playing from the ceiling
Girls talking loud, so important,
Deciding options for their next photo shoot,
sweet and divine making their plans.
And me
Silently observing, enjoying
If I were an overweight man
probably
I would be creepy
But I am a nice package
They're in L.A. for the weekend.
Oh, they've been to London and "her boyfriend is an *******
She wore the baby blue, "it was my mother's", and it brings out her eyes
Why is he friend's with Madeline?
She's a *****
But we like her. She's very bold.
Plans laid and heading out. Good for them.
And I'm still here.
Ache in my neck,
Baroque in my ears (because I heard it improves learning and slows heart rate),
This anti-poem coming from my fingertips
Alone in this cafe and now the mood has shifted.
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 9:34 PM UTC
The bell rings.
I am one of the many cows that herd towards the door,
mooing impatiently to exit.
By entering into the hallway,
I find you easily
because I know where to search,
and we have grown accustomed to
picking each other out in crowds.
Our eyes lock for a fleeting second,
then we both find a spot on the floor to inspect
as we wait for me to
make my way towards your stationary self
and your pocketed hands. Step after clunky step.
Once I arrive, in place of exchanging greetings,
our bodies 180 turn and make our way among fellow cows.
Our lanky walks fall in sync with each other, clumsy
in all the same places.
We walk side by side together. This is routine.
We do this every day. Two among a herd of cows.
Moral of the story:
To everyone else, we are nobody.
To each other, we are somebody.
The favorite part of my day is knowing someone is there
Waiting for me to find my way to them.
The best part is I always do.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 6:38 AM UTC
I'm whistling you a tune to waft into.
Some say to walk with the wind on your heels.
I don't do that.
I crash forward with clunky, massive steps
cracking concrete,
shattering asphalt and charging onward like a directionless bull.
If anything, I barrel into you like a semi off a freeway.
You smile and say you never knew what hit you.
You fall backwards.
As I run towards, you cave in.
I'm pressing my lips against you with something akin to force.
(the desperation of the intoxicated)
I burrow into your chest trying to make a place to hide in.
You sigh and fall to pieces;
crumble into dust to lay in.
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 8:21 PM UTC
Ghosts
The ghosts float about
sometimes above my head
sometimes in my chest
they wrap themselves
Oh to be lycan
I saw a wolf in the northwest covered with snow
blue eyes looking right through me
as if to say wake up you stupid human
stuck in the mud
float in snow my man!
I feel the heat on my inner thighs
creeping upward tickling enticing
as if the summer is trying to peak its head
through cold winter soil
the shiny black snake coils
around my ankles
squeezes telling me to be not afraid
of the primordial divine impulse
to take my earthiness and embrace it
bring it to the heavens where it belongs
with my spirit.
The Woman
The long thin silk scarf around her neck
***** and flies off her left shoulder
like angel wings in the wind
caresses my cheek and neck
wants me within her feminine self.
Ah! what sweetness to behold!
her soft skin gentlizes me
takes my hairy clunky body
lifts it into my dreams
into her moistness.
Awake
And now I am awake
to spring in its irrepressible green
daffodils at the base of the pear tree
direct my eyes from earth to sky
like an organic gothic arch
long puffy clouds stand still
against the bright azure sky
heaven on earth.
Mar 18, 2021
Mar 18, 2021 at 2:26 PM UTC
Death becomes you,
So modest and frail
Caressing Last Rites
Laid out in Braille
Wearing a gray suit
Free hand pulling the hem taut
Clunky black shoes
Hair tied in a knot
Distress's mistress
With barren lips
Lust glistening from her eyes
Cleverly drips
Mouth opened just enough
To notice the absence of sound
Seized words
Left in impound
A last little twitch
Consumes an entire room
Giving away spring
Before the lilac had a chance to bloom
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 11:30 PM UTC
Clunky hands tick round
To beckon the rooster's crow --
No crisp morn summoned.
Perhaps sharp teeth sliced
Spilling chunks on moving gears --
Springs once sprung severed.
Though ticks still trundle
Their purpose swings freshly void --
Dense clunks breed gloaming.
With no shredding bay
Ending rapid eye movement --
Endless night transpires.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 5:05 PM UTC
Swat the butterflies whose wings
Decieve the poem and inscribes
Its colored brilliance on gilded flights;
There is no grace to his clunky
Flying and brings repetitive hooplah
To the natural poem and steals
Its personable voice.
Every language has a flow of poetry
Whose inner soul derives of the
Course of one's harmony and rhythm,
And using a star of butterflies in every
Poem brings about the very sameness
We all suffer from daily.
See the beauty in a vulture
Whose glide is magnificent
Spreading his wings in silent
Flight above rolling hills.
His beauty is not that of the
Butterfly, but it's flight is undeniably
Graceful and finding its natural
Poetic flow is deeper still.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 11:42 AM UTC