"cushions" poems
Touch it: it won't shrink like an eyeball,
This egg-shaped bailiwick, clear as a tear.
Here's yesterday, last year ---
Palm-spear and lily distinct as flora in the vast
Windless threadwork of a tapestry.
Flick the glass with your fingernail:
It will ping like a Chinese chime in the slightest air stir
Though nobody in there looks up or bothers to answer.
The inhabitants are light as cork,
Every one of them permanently busy.
At their feet, the sea waves bow in single file.
Never trespassing in bad temper:
Stalling in midair,
Short-reined, pawing like paradeground horses.
Overhead, the clouds sit tasseled and fancy
As Victorian cushions. This family
Of valentine faces might please a collector:
They ring true, like good china.
Elsewhere the landscape is more frank.
The light falls without letup, blindingly.
A woman is dragging her shadow in a circle
About a bald hospital saucer.
It resembles the moon, or a sheet of blank paper
And appears to have suffered a sort of private blitzkrieg.
She lives quietly
With no attachments, like a foetus in a bottle,
The obsolete house, the sea, flattened to a picture
She has one too many dimensions to enter.
Grief and anger, exorcised,
Leave her alone now.
The future is a grey seagull
Tattling in its cat-voice of departure.
Age and terror, like nurses, attend her,
And a drowned man, complaining of the great cold,
Crawls up out of the sea.
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You are a sailor
Drift way from the harbor
Pull up the anchor
That binds you down
Set sail towards the horizon
Take off the blindfold
And hoist the sail
Let the wind be your guide
Sun and the Moon your compass
Steering through uncharted waters
Sometimes calm weather
Or, inclement weather, rocking your ship
Tackling the deep waters with alacrity
Unfathomable depths, yet the ship sails
Cutting through the waters
The saline water, which is a part of you
Seagulls guide you towards the shore
Anchoring at the preferred destination
Every grain of sand cushions your feet
Welcoming you to the island of bliss
Cut off from the mainland
Yet, helping you connect with yourself
Now it’s time to unwind
And join the party after a successful voyage
Ready to set sail for another expedition
As a sailor, cruise till the end
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
Love, the world
Suddenly turns, turns color. The streetlight
Splits through the rat's tail
Pods of the laburnum at nine in the morning.
It is the Arctic,
This little black
Circle, with its tawn silk grasses - babies hair.
There is a green in the air,
Soft, delectable.
It cushions me lovingly.
I am flushed and warm.
I think I may be enormous,
I am so stupidly happy,
My Wellingtons
Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.
This is my property.
Two times a day
I pace it, sniffing
The barbarous holly with its viridian
Scallops, pure iron,
And the wall of the odd corpses.
I love them.
I love them like history.
The apples are golden,
Imagine it ----
My seventy trees
Holding their gold-ruddy *****
In a thick gray death-soup,
Their million
Gold leaves metal and breathless.
O love, O celibate.
Nobody but me
Walks the waist high wet.
The irreplaceable
Golds bleed and deepen, the mouths of Thermopylae.
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The Tint I cannot take—is best—
The Color too remote
That I could show it in Bazaar—
A Guinea at a sight—
The fine—impalpable Array—
That swaggers on the eye
Like Cleopatra’s Company—
Repeated—in the sky—
The Moments of Dominion
That happen on the Soul
And leave it with a Discontent
Too exquisite—to tell—
The eager look—on Landscapes—
As if they just repressed
Some Secret—that was pushing
Like Chariots—in the Vest—
The Pleading of the Summer—
That other Prank—of Snow—
That Cushions Mystery with Tulle,
For fear the Squirrels—know.
Their Graspless manners—mock us—
Until the Cheated Eye
Shuts arrogantly—in the Grave—
Another way—to see—
18.5k
I lost the ***** that held my world together
There is no finding it now
And yes, I looked between the cushions of the couch
I prepare to run because
Like water through a busted dam it is coming
Like the pain of a stubbed toe it arrives in a furious instant
That asks for select curse words to be shouted
But so unlike pain in my toe, it does not fade
My world comes crashing down
The clouds in the sky fall
As dust onto my outstretched fingertips
(They hope to catch a bit of my falling world)
The atmosphere caves in
The air pressure intensifies
Until it has wrapped me
In a straight-jacket and
I
Am
Paralyzed
I Search for your comforting eyes as you
Distantly ask me if I am okay I’m not
Okay but I cannot
Open my mouth
For the words to say because
I cannot move an inch to save you
Let alone myself
I couldn’t even save a
Word document right now
I try to scream but
I
Can’t
Speak
And my world is crashing down
The water from the busted dam
Hits me like a concrete wall
My useless straight-jacketed body
Is swept away
The water washes away all emotion
I
Can’t
Feel
The sound of my demise is so loud
In my ears
I cannot hear you any longer
I
Can’t
Hear
The lack of oxygen
In my brain
Turns off the light
I cannot see the stars
I
Can’t
See
Water everywhere
World crashing down
I
Am
Drowning
My heart beats too
Fast
Fast
Fast
I don’t have enough air to
Last
Last
Last
World
Crashing
Down
I
Can’t
Move
Can’t
Speak
Nor
Feel
Hear
See,
I
(Gasp)
Can’t
(Gasp)
Breathe.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
in complete melodies
the frequencies i hear
can not be contained by anything
love is drifting through the hills
and you are home to its trills
she dreams of light, the fire bright
and full of crystal skulls and eyeballs
dozens of monuments are built
just to mark the moments
when we could have said i'm sorry
merge with the mountains
find the source of fountains
shine the diamond compass
if that's what you are really here for
broken dams are our business
feed the swans their luminescent lunch-boxes
duck for cover, its a wonder that we are all together here
that's clearly redundant
the tendency to dream
is the most important human faculty
its a tragedy that the lack of nuclear power
showers the atomic world in rainbows
as forlorn teenagers in the ice-age of America
govern our equipment from their parent's basements
and carouse with comfort upon chairs, cushions and couches
a million times the victory
a million miles of rope to weave
a million are the paths to god
and a million more are the souls
who've learned to cope with tragedy
i come cherishing and bearing gifts
figures of speech are my playthings
i am furniture remodeled daily
and intuitively placed around your home
the finer things in life are free
so see me there upon your television set
i am electromagnetic static
within the black and white of advertisements
i am figures of forgotten speech
so record the unwatched programs
in your mind’s virtual memory
the hard drive of work and play
creates hundreds of new retirees each day
hundreds of haunted expatriates
knuckle-headed people
that couldn't tread lightly
even if they wanted to
so will you please untie me
and remove these binds and chains
it's time to free the lover from the psyche
for that is all she wrote
i am a silent p
i am a violet apogee
i am a cosmic minority
i am a message in your tea leaves
but if you stand too long in my shoes
you’ll likely drown in solitude
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 2:34 PM UTC
An awesome book
a sumptuous chair
plump cushions
silence
my perfect
Sunday afternoon
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
i
you say i am honestly not the same person
i say one day i woke up honest
and i do not know how to undo experience
my own eyes and ears and nose and mouth
cannot be undone at the moment
how do you do it?
push that pressure to the back of your mind
like that
how do you all manage to laugh with a straight face
at things that you know aren't really funny
i can't fathom it. where you go
when you are stomping and ripping
and ****** and jeering
and laughing and running
it's exhausting to watch you
ii
i apologize if it doesn't make sense
that i can't play along
but playing along
doesn't make sense
i could never win a grammy
with this tight lipped smile
laughing at the expense of others
makes me feel more like a paparazzi
placating insecurities for currency
leeching off the vulnerability
you may not think i'm smart but
i am smart enough to know this is not 'normal'
and there is nothing wrong with staring at you in the rearview
and saying "i wish that was really sarcasm"
i'll tell you the truth
and you don't have to like it
and you don't have to like me
and i don't have to like you
because if there's one thing i know about myself
it's that i don't dislike anybody
until they show off their callousness
hoping it's the right party trick
to gain respect
iii
we watch comedy tv, and you are worried
by the way my spine cracks
when i let out a uncontrollable laugh
dragging on, beginning to spill, and as i try to quell it
my whole body shakes with the pressure
of it bubbling inside of me
you feel all of this beside of me
a small volcano with a bent back
quaking absorbed by pillows and flowers and cushions
not quite right for you
wondering why i couldn't laugh like this earlier
when we were not alone
everyone is looking for something more porous
more willing to let in effortlessly
and absorb tirelessly
that can simply laugh like a stream bubbles
and let go of the undercurrent
yet we are sharp and uneven and course like logs
and the weight of our actions carries much further
being shunted downstream by tides of gravity
every intention runs it's course
every intention speaks volumes
if you feel that in your core
every day you will uncontrollably think of how
every intention defines the quality of the laughter
stuck in someone else's head
and you will save it for things that are funny
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 4:26 AM UTC
How dare you feed your shadow and bind your rulebook with the cells of my brain, the tissue of my heart and the calories of my existence.
How dare you tear down my home. How dare you throw away the cushions of my stomach, tear down the curtains of my hair, destroy the pillars of my legs. Until all that was left was the cold brick. an empty house. A hollow heart, a bedridden passion for life.
You ate my muted screams and my broken dreams. Slower, no slower, chew slower. Don’t eat too quick. Weigh that, no! Weigh it again, the scales could be wrong so round it up, log it, 200 left for dinner. Please just let me eat, please give me peace.
Dog-earing her rulebook and breaking its osteoporotic spine. Feeding my life, furnishing my home.
Jul 26, 2021
Jul 26, 2021 at 12:08 PM UTC
This was just published so it is copyright 2015 by Holy Cow Press ~ mce
Poverty is the fence around your life. Poverty wakes you up at 4 AM only to whisper meaningless slogans in your ear. It is the school of Piranha nibbling at the back of your brain. It is two hours waiting in the anteroom of despair for $22 worth of food stamps and being glad to be there. It is changing your phone number frequently because bill collectors are such boring conversationalists. It is the empty space your heels used to fill. It is letting your hair grow long and scraggly and your grizzled beard sprout because you know that although you sleep in rented rooms tonight, the street is not far off, and you want to fit in when you arrive. Poverty scalds the lint from your pockets. It is your private Treblinka within which you rage but are crushed. It is desperate prayers against dental catastrophes, blown tires, surprises of any sort. Poverty is when everything you own is frayed including your nerves from sleepless moments spent trying to solve the equation that will make X number of dollars cover X + ? number of bills, knowing that such math would defeat Newton or Einstein. Poverty is eying the cat's kibble imagining that with a bit of sugar and a splash of milk it might be fine and then eyeballing the cat himself thinking of protein of last resort and trying not to measure him against the microwave door. You ration your cigarettes; whiskey is a fading memory. Passing a diner on the street, you catch a whiff of burgers too expensive to consider and experience a Pavlovian moment. Poverty is trying to keep your head up and then remembering you pawned your neck. Poverty is watching the needle eat your last few gallons of gas. Poverty is the archeology of despair. It portends the death of irony. There is nothing ironic about a car with 217,000 miles and no insurance on it. Facts are facts in the world of poverty. Poverty is the last quarter reclaimed from beneath the cushions. It is too much time and not enough quarters. It is the specious logic of the self-righteous proclaiming that you deserve to be poor because you are, which in Amerika passes for wisdom. Poverty makes each day like the next because nothing does not vary. It is who you are and where you are going, although you won't get far. It is the life you lead inside the fence. It is the sum of what you lack. It just is.
- mce
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC
My couch,
Is death,
And avoidance is a second language,
Ask me do I speak it?
Conjoined twins,
Of misery and manipulation,
No calls,
Only cushions and customer's custom complaints,
From tomorrow,
The phone wont ring,
So I'll stay down this road,
Listening to headlines and headlights
Sing,
Moody music dwelling,
Where the lies and shame met in between,
Cut the cue, end the scene
The stage has been rebuilt,
We talked like teenagers,
And you told me that I've changed,
But the same,
Still that same number,
No more gap,
But your smile still kills,
Pain with palendromes,
We were here before,
And so again we,
Our fighting saying goodnight,
Street lamps in different cities,
Static.
I'm just fine,
Playing my part,
My mainstream maybe different,
But
Obsession has been overcame,
By the rising tide of a smile,
If the teleprompting signs shine through,
Meanwhiles and meditations
What can I do,
Except hope I'm reading,
The
Right
Script,
The couch,
It asks,
Where have you been?
I set down another,
chip.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 1:41 AM UTC
Mum had been gone a couple of months, six I think… (An ordinary day, feeling hollow but doing OK) …when I realised I could get rid of the sofa.
I thought it was ugly, she thought it was a bargain. A sofa’s not a keepsake and it was certainly no heirloom. I’d not inflict it on my kids. I got rid.
If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. Even if it meant keeping the sofa.
Redecorated. Bought a new telly. Spent frivolous amounts of cash on scatter cushions. She disliked scatter cushions. I thought they were cosy.
My little boy drew on one of the cushions. On purpose. I was about to smack the back of his legs… (Mum would have, she smacked me when I was little) … I stopped.
I never wanted to. Had known all along, somehow forgotten.
If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. But she would not smack my children.
Mum had been gone a year… (Planting bulbs, feeling conspicuous carrying a shovel ‘round the churchyard) …and I missed her.
It was as hot as the day she died. There was no breeze up on that hill, no cloud. Beautiful views stretched right out to the sea.
My little boy had grown, he helped carry water and dig holes. My baby was learning to walk, she wobbled on uneven turf between the headstones. I wanted Mum to see.
If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. No question.
Mum had been gone three years… (Bulbs were doing OK. There was nothing left to plant that rabbits wouldn't nibble) …and I realised it was time to move on.
I kept the ghosts quiet while agents showed people round. The house sold. We moved away. A warm, terraced place in a small town by the sea. Dad died.
Mum has been gone eight years and I miss her.
Looking out from the Downs across cliff-top and sea, the churchyard seems nothing more than a soft-grey fleck on the green edge of town.
If I could bring her back now? Everything’s changed.
Ghosts exist. They sit in empty chairs and speak kettle-whistle. Wishing us well.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 2:34 PM UTC
There are some people who drape themselves across others
like rugs,
who beg for physical affection
like a dog waiting to have its belly scratched,
who hook pinkies and elbows and knees
with their best friend from childhood while huddled under blankets
in the middle of the night.
I am not one of these people.
I sit on the arms of couches,
feet turned away from the pile of mismatched body parts
that occupies the cushions.
I am not used to being touched gently.
But something about you
makes me crave contact.
Hand to hand
Hip to hip
It doesn’t matter.
All my life I have been balancing on the edge of
fear and desire
in a world without all of my senses,
and I think
one touch from you
a brush, a spark
would send me falling.
No, not falling.
Flying.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 10:42 PM UTC
Her head is up in the clouds
and they are so soft and fluffy
as sweet as cotton candy
and she takes a bite even though
she knows it'll rot her teeth.
But of course she only tastes water,
as it was a cloud she bit
and she wonders how these fluffy cushions
even support her.
She probably shouldn't have wondered,
because she's falling now
through those soft clouds
that fade away on contact.
Free fall to the ground
where there is no candy
to sweetly rot her teeth,
where there are no clouds
to cushion her descent,
where there is nothing but
cold, solid earth
ready to break her
at the end of her fall.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
January 23, 1993
Tender young thighs and old cushions
Warm places to rest her sweet head
Hard sweating smells and soft fingers
And hair stretched out on the bed
There's a ghost in the jewellery box mirror
As pretty as any you’ve seen
There's a ghost in the jewellery box mirror
Reflecting a tired old dream
Ah but none of us know why she’s spinning
When in truth she is headed nowhere
Though each of us forms an opinion
We must lose as the truth comes to bare
There's a ghost in the jewellery box mirror
For the devil is female it's said
There's a ghost in the jewellery box mirror
It's pretty 'til it turns its head
There's a grace that we lose when we're aged
There's an honour we lose when we lie
There's a guilt that can tear the heart ragged
When it beds down with truth at its side
There's a ghost in the jewellery box mirror
And all I can do is to stare
There's a ghost in the jewellery box mirror
I know because you placed it there
There's a heart beat to count every moment
We're apart and both in despair
You cry for a love that is past, Dear
I cry for a love is still here
And what trickery has taken this anger
That has witnessed your love laying dead
and placed it full in the sunlight
where it festered and flew from my head?
James H. Webb
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 4:06 PM UTC
coated with cushions
fall asleep anywhere
without a single care or worry
wish i knew your secret
Captain Comfort.
everything comes easily
easy to withdraw
easy to release
who cares the least?
Captain Comfort.
i wanna feel what it's like
to be in that soft skin
forgetting what is in
forgetting everything
Captain Comfort.
in your own life boat
is there space for me?
or would it only be
discomfort?
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 7:06 AM UTC
You breathed your last breath from the air
in this room;
that threadbare Persian carpet
holds flakes from your skin;
hairs from your head
corkscrew the dented cushions
scattered and idly waiting on the sofa;
bed linen scented with your sweat
the goose down doona that stole
your last warmth;
sleep spit and tears
human moisture that permeates
the acrylic layers of your pillow;
an eyebrow hair wedged in the tweezers;
a clipped nail that flew off
somewhere out of sight;
that new toothbrush used only once;
your flannel and towel still drying out;
the wet press footprint on the bathroom mat;
the talcum powdered slippers
abandoned under the brass bed.
Each moment of everyday
we shed ourselves
shed dead cells and renew -
a cycle of shedding
until the last
shedding of ourselves.
© M.L. Emmett
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
We came,
like young infants
stumbling head-long into hedonistic existence
Feeling air beneath our feet in the weed-smelling rooms,
hiding behind cushions and blankets and exchanging knowing looks
on starry nights.
We ran,
down green hills on hot, sunny days
and burned our hands on shed roofs
and the ends of rolled cigarettes.
We drank,
berry cider in the dark,
dancing drunkenly outside bars,
sharing secrets behind closed doors
and open whiskey bottles.
We needed,
no one but each other
and each other's mothers -
Some opening their arms to us
to swaddle us like newborns,
Others dismissing us with a wave of a hand
We spent,
the last year of our school lives
immersed in each other,
some more than others.
We cried,
like shell-shocked soldiers
behind locked bedroom doors
and into smashed-up mobile phones.
We returned,
to those dark evenings,
to drink ***** on hilltops and smoke endlessly,
laughing at everything ******
We were glowing stars.
We loved,
and those immature jokes hit our shields
and not our bones.
And now our lives have changed
and all those heady evenings spent
hiding beer from Bulgarians
are behind us all.
We are alone,
in this world.
Some moreso than others,
But we are alive.
We are still us.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 3:03 PM UTC
These are not, "possibilities,"
decisions are already made.
You do not live in a democracy.
War is coming; Iran and Syria.
Nuclear Supremacy is not an,
"ideal," or notion, it is a fact.
They are stating a fact.
Not opinion, -they intend to do it.
I used To think that if you readE,
read enough, studied, you'D see?
Brighter minds would stop it!
"Fool;" those minds are planning it!
Policy Papers are not policy at all,
they are cushions, a softening pillory.
Designed to lay a foundation.
Where you play sucker for war.
N.W.A
-New World Apocalypse-
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 9:49 PM UTC
If that night could remember
it would call him back
to our Chinese restaurant
to fried rice and steaming tea
to our winter refuge of tile and cushions
60s retro black and white
Chrome legs of lacquered tables
with its mural of
our Great Wall
...winding, distant, wonder
If the snow hadn't muffled all
but our voices
we would not be—
so alone
Only I
felt his arm take its chance
around my shoulder
Guiding warmth
as good excuse as any
to touch
Two miles on foot
An arc in time
In lace of white
to hide— what might....
Below my window
“Good Night”
not enough
for troubadour
singing, pleading, stumbling...
(I worry about his long way home)
...and hardly notice...
How gently Time joins Snow
as if they cannot bare
instead, conspire
Decide the crystals
Send the flakes to sift over him
This loss needs snow
to blur his face
to fade from view....
This— tender let-down from the sky
As only snow can do...
Cover with beauty
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6o6zMPLcXZ8
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 10:39 PM UTC
lovers are burning.] balsamic ****** gallops from shame
into the overwild wetness of labial volcanoes, caramelized in musk. by love's labor.
laid bare, their bodies origami inhibition...[ lovers are burning. ]
and surrender is victorious !
Eros is speechless. maidens howl into cumulus goose-down, chewing carnal haikus
with swayed backs.... hips wide and wanton. masculine wands plow oyster beds, unmade.
they joust pearls... and [ lovers are burning ]
.... a damp conflagration; tongue stoked and windswept, conspires.
monotony is slain !
puritan harps are plucked and thrummed ! lewd harmonies anoint the perfect pitch
and a chorus moans. the ghost of sylvia plath, straddles Apollo; and he earns his wreath
surging besotted. [ lovers are burning ] and laurels forgotten.
lotharios charge the seldom road; the starfish door to Saturn's parlor.
pumping unbridled, that glistening, cloven moon. her riding crop insists !
his urgency must do.
satyrs sup salaciously and summon staves to dip in brine. they grin and grind
their sutras, stripping karma gears with silk scarves. ankles to a post, well spread...
cushions crush. flowers press... stamen fed.
nymphs clutch their serpent stones
to drain what nectar slips the slit. they ***** and throat.
they peck and pinch their quivers; knock their arrows to the purpose, half spent.
[ lovers are burning ]
eyes ablaze. nostrils fetch randy fumes of consent. mouths seek.
a pouty swamp with Spanish moss.... finds a matador
and a bull, a china shop.
lovers are burning the rough sketch of a lost god
and their angels are voyeurs
with unclean thoughts
for gospels.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
So full of life and vital things
upon the brink, I spread my wings
and close my eyes and look ahead
at all the things I've never said
at all the things I should have done
of prizes that I've striven for
and hopelessly have never won
of friends I've made
who've come and gone
Of mountains that I should have climbed
instead, on cushions I reclined
and thoughtlessly I drank the wine
of Apathy
So now that clouds have drifted by
and all alone, I lift my eye
and see the way to heaven's door
and know that life's worth fighting for
Next time I see a mountain high
I'll bound right up and touch the sky
I'll seek the prize and win this time
I'm not afraid, I'll take what's mine
won't rest on laurels in the sun
I'll fly to where the work is done
and if it's worth the price I'll give,
of all I have, so we can live
in peace, I'll comfort anyone
who needs my help
to get things done
I'll thank the Lord for what he gave
his sinless life our souls to save
I'll hold my friends much dearer still
I'll share the wine, we'll drink our fill
No Apathy
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
He had been becoming older
I looked at him the same
his dark hair showed no signs of it
his beard had flecks of grey
I remember we would take refuge
under blankets
or a fort made of cushions
we'd stay up later than our mother knew
soon he would be the parent
being hidden from
when his little boy grows up
maybe he'll be a rogue, like you were
occupied in work
with the thought of coming home to be a father
it feels like we're living the future now -
he's married and so settled down
light blue sheets cover the weary mother
they catch my eye, I smile
because they match the cap and romper suit
of his new-born baby boy
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 4:46 AM UTC
A ***** couch rests in the living room,
Like an old green stump.
Worn from too many soap operas and football games
The pillows droop like tired eyelids.
The smell of exhaustion and grime clings to the well-worn skin
That itches if you get too close.
Dog hair is sprinkled across the cushions
Along with mysterious stains and crusty popcorn between seats.
It gobbles up change, remotes and secrets.
Far from a fairy-tale throne
It has as much romance as a sock.
But since the bedroom was off-limits,
It would have to do.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC