"foots" poems
Think
the over thinking
Like
wanting a drink that you're already drinking
Like
wanting to swim when you're already sinking
So easy to think the over thinking
a concoction of daydreams
you hate to be drinking
While
you're already busy believing your sinking
and your foots on solid ground.
So easy to think the over thinking
leaving
your future on the brink of brinking
And
you haven't done a thing cause
you're too busy thinking.
So easy to think the over thinking -
The only reason that your really sinking
in a world that may be okay.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 8:22 AM UTC
Just inches below the ground
but must be behind the sight
sow the seed for a tree in return.
Deepening down the bottom of the sea
nor lying on the ground dropping off the sky
merely dipping into some foots long body
the soul springs a life.
Take it on the run then should the sky
or earth bends giving a flatten lid.
Even then can it prevent
the soul when rebounds with a life indeed?
An inside scoop, a math, never surfaces
neither in sky nor on Earth, a measured deep,
always behind the eyes but life maker indeed.
Aug 4, 2022
Aug 4, 2022 at 8:33 PM UTC
Get out your sponges, stippling brushes and pens,
It’s time for makeover-Monday-night to begin.
Think Winky Lux, L’Oréal, Urban Decay,
Maybelline, Armani and Fabergé
It’s a black magic realm where brushes are wands,
where a carnival of colors are carefully crayoned.
We have palettes aplenty, in kaleidoscope hues,
to create fashion looks, both bold and subdued.
In the realm of makeup fashion, where trends never end,
we remodel each other - for fun - when we can.
Tonight, our new friend Jammie has come to watch us play,
and he even brought two bottles of chardonnay.
Lisa has a ‘Miss Rose’ case, like she saw in Bernadette Peters’
dressing room, on a backstage tour of the Shubert Theatre.
Konjac, Kabuki, Doe foots, Spoolie, Lisa’s got legit tools to use.
“When it comes to makeup,” she says, “always avoid dupes.”
That night I was the chosen face, the excited living canvas.
Lisa’s a practiced artist, her process is brisk and never tedious.
She painted my lips a crimson cherry, alluring and brightly sensuous,
my brows were moonlit art, my cheeks a midnight adumbrated edifice.
Lisa created a special look, where rebellious edge met elegance.
We took some snaps, then I washed it off - but Jammie was impressed!
Jun 6, 2023
Jun 6, 2023 at 10:51 PM UTC
"Great Scott"
Like Lucas and Nathan
Y'all ain't perfect but you're trying
Relying on something other than your name to take you far...
You're a star
But let you shine diminish as each person you thought you were close to,
Tarnishes what you hold dear
No fear sweetheart,
No fear
Claim what is yours
Speak loudly and proudly
So that the haters hear
Let them know you're here
And that nothing can stop you...
---
Back to the drawing board
Or better yet back to this blank canvas
familiar and inviting and yet I can’t help but wonder
how these words will create an image
I guess there ain’t no better way to find out
but to move onward
---
How ‘bout we search for some meaning
A little substance from the soul
I mean maybe I can’t sing but I bet you gon’ feel this
I’m just tryna be the realest
give my people something relatable
and also a fragment of me
writing about what I see
or what might be
the hopes and dreams
of a child in this restless city
gazing upon the night sky
pondering on his life’s importance
in comparison to the billions of stars that shine bright
could he possibly one day emit light?
give direction to those who might’ve lost sight
could he scheme up a dream as big as Martin did
and if so, would he reach the masses?
because lord knows in the days we live in
we need hope
but how does one cope
when hundreds of thousands of lives are being taken by dope or foots of rope
we’ve lost our way
a country that once proclaimed to be best
now stands on its last legs
and the people we elect to govern us
continue to dig us deeper into this hole
have we nothing left to show?
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC
Water of remembrance sprinkled
On the mountain crest of recollection.
Indulgent mussy memory catapulted
Stones of retentiveness into the
Courtyard of events like bricole
Of battles.
Pendulum of reminiscences swinging
On oscillating milage of roads like
Trotting horse with drippage of sweat
And itching foots.
Ghost of reminiscences restlessly
Roaming with carriage of yesteryear.
Final year educatees required
Boardinghouse,
But list of items engorged dear
Mother's treasury
"where do l raise money
to buy oyinbo mattress, Ilori?"
Mind pullulated with weariness.
Intonation of worries.
Cantillation of wants.
Deficiency of measured means.
Oyinbo mattress beyond ladder
Of reach.
Gluttonously waiting to devour
Lesser items,
But rays of compulsion unslammed
The gate of respite.
Lordly arrival warmly welcomed by
The dorm room's porter,
Walking majestically to the bed-space
With the acquired cotton wool and raffia leaves mattress.
Gamut of items passed through the eagle's eyes of the housemaster.
Silver painted pail donated by a neighbour passed through the sentry of inspection,
And got its admission.
Mother's used cloak turned bedsheets
Passed through the rigorous scrutiny.
Newly built portmanteau unlocked and neatly dissected, item by item.
Agazed eyes focused on the cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress.
Expectations rattled mumbling astonishment.
Legs stuck in the mud of mystification.
Telepathic dews covered ocean of thought.
Tranquil silence engulfed vicinity,
Deflating the balloon of hope like a litigant awaiting verdict from the jurist's chambers.
Porter's gesticulating gesture connoted nothingness of demeaning disapproval, perambulating on the hilly terrain of approval.
Akimbo stood l.
Now the verdict!
Molten volcanic magisterial command erupted in a gestapo gesture,
Spudding out from the barytone's baritone voice from the selfsame housemaster,
From the bastion of authority,
And the house generalissimo like a wild brant squalled, matter-of-factly,
"we do not accept bed bugs cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress here".
Entreaties collapsed.
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 1:30 AM UTC
Two wayward souls lost at sea
Depression weighed heavy on he
Terrified of this cold world was she
Drifting alone,
The sea salt saps hope
Of a good life, even as the storm passes
This tired man flats into the Abyss
Drifting alone,
The dark ocean pulls at pad foots
No concept of love, an void concept
Abandoned home, drowning her tears
By nature's fortune, enter the whirlpool
Which graciously accepts the lost
Drifting together into the danger
The torrents send them off
Two wayward souls lostin each other.
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 10:10 AM UTC
I know not where I shall find love
By the foots of the mountain or on the plains of clove
Where the oak trees shed their green blades on the brown grass
Perchance by the deserted road where lays the heap of trash
I know not when I shall find love
During spring when April showers bring may flowers
When wintry chilling cold bites the white earth
When the woods glow of amber in the hearth
I know not how I will find love
Through divine appointment or by strove
Whether from a recent friend or a foe of past days
May be from stranger met by labyrithine ways
I know not why I will find love
Whether possessed passions will cause me to move
To seek the friendship of some lovely lass
May be just another ritual of life to pass
Whether in known or unknown places
Whether in familiar or strange faces
Whether time is constant or flies like a dove
I one day shall find love
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 11:39 AM UTC
A Load of brushes and baskets and cradles and chairs
Labours along the street in the rain:
With it a man, a woman, a pony with whiteybrown hairs.—
The man foots in front of the horse with a shambling sway
At a slower tread than a funeral train,
While to a dirge-like tune he chants his wares,
Swinging a Turk’s-head brush (in a drum-major’s way
When the bandsmen march and play).
A yard from the back of the man is the whiteybrown pony’s nose:
He mirrors his master in every item of pace and pose:
He stops when the man stops, without being told,
And seems to be eased by a pause; too plainly he’s old,
Indeed, not strength enough shows
To steer the disjointed waggon straight,
Which wriggles left and right in a rambling line,
Deflected thus by its own warp and weight,
And pushing the pony with it in each incline.
The woman walks on the pavement verge,
Parallel to the man:
She wears an apron white and wide in span,
And carries a like Turk’s-head, but more in nursing-wise:
Now and then she joins in his dirge,
But as if her thoughts were on distant things,
The rain clams her apron till it clings.—
So, step by step, they move with their merchandize,
And nobody buys.
1.7k
Oh, here I am confined to the walls of my sadness!
I am lean and weary,
my heart thin and dreary.
Oh, how I've longt to wander yon mountainous hills again,
this time with thee,
descending the steeps, our bare foots brushing against the heath beneath
blending into the hilly surroundings
under the laughter of the joyful heavens -
o how riveting the bank underneath shall be!
O how delicacy shall reign my frame abruptly -
bequeathing its foreign spirit gladly,
so that I am showered with its frantic idyll
with adversity whose love can never forget!
O how this joy shall conquer any rivers of indignation,
drive their disdained yoke away
along with those conceited tears
of sullenness, hatred, and amorous gluttony!
But unreachable art thou!
O Kozarev, my prince, sole prince in these silent wintry dreams,
how thou appeareth like a gleaming apparition,
soothing my reposes, making whose armours complete,
with smiles can bear all my gloominess away,
whose lovely jests are warmth to my soul, my yearning and choking soul,
in the deathlike bursts of this misty day!
O Kozarev, in today's laborious air I shall think of thee,
thy stately figure, thy youth of ardour!
Thy grin the star to the fading sun;
thy words that calmeth sorrow; and sendth thrills through my bones!
O mumbling lips, o trembling horns!
My little treasure, if only thou could hear my earnest longing
my very earnest desire; sincere yet tempestuous
that I shalt lift my hands around thee
Just how those rocks stand firm on the glaring sea
Cheers in its coldness; praises its bland waviness
Like a small boat unyielding to the melodious storm
when the last harmony is no longer sounding!
O, how I long to share this fondness with thee!
Kozarev, my demure pleasure, my belated fate!
My firing snow, my blazing sun,
the handsomest flower of my being!
My lithe little heart might be of nothing to thee
I am unworthy, yet I yearn for thee so willingly!
Kozarev, amidst the rolls of my dreams I devour thee,
wherein dwells the upmost of our affection
and sits our sheepish little village!
And adjacent to the gentle fireside
upon our wooden squeaking chair
brimmed with love, smeared with laughs
I should rock by thee
sew thee into my very own loveliness
and ****** thy grace
to the faint redness of my lips.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 5:55 AM UTC
The fog crept in on giant monster claws,
Surely no itty-bitty feline foots, I pray:
“Feets don’t fail me now,”
A line that will live in infamy,
Way back in a vaudeville when,
A minstrel Chitlin Circuit then,
Was an actor known as the
"Laziest man in the world,"
A character designed to stick to a
Collective white consciousness,
Stick like Tar-Baby, that negative
Image of African-American men--
I speak of The Brothers--
Who for over a century, have been
Struggling to live down a pernicious,
Most persistently demeaning,
Hollywood trope.
Tribute is due to the black actor born:
Lincoln Theodore Monroe Andrew Perry.
Oh, Mr. Perry, & yes, you were the
First black actor to receive
Screen credit in a film.
Well, I guess that puts you right up there,
With Jackie Robinson & Sidney Poitier,
Carver or Tubman, or any of those
Countless northern abolitionists--
With no personal stake in slavery,
Or emancipation, but fervent nonetheless--
Color-barrier breakers &
Household saints a-coming &
A-marching in, in that number . . .
You paid a big price, Mr. Perry:
The indignity & débauche,
By abject surrender to the Boss Man,
Tribute, recognition is due for
Feats of humility & self-abasement,
Entailing total superhuman surrender,
Capitulation to the dismal, prevailing
State of American race relations at the time.
Stepin Fetchit: a name & a persona,
Not just painfully racist, but
Downright subversive.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 1:45 AM UTC
She is the one with
Brightest Eyes that shine with promises of brightest future,
Heart that beats on rhythm of unsung melodies of valor,
Her tiny foots getting ready to conquer the unclaimed territories,
Her hands ready to lead world towards purest form of happiness,
Her smile brightening up the dullest day
The world knows her by the name
"Mirha Sakina"
What they don't know is
She is the Golden Princess
Born to rule the world !!
Oct 27, 2020
Oct 27, 2020 at 5:04 PM UTC
Once I broke my left foots ankle
snapped the tendons from the inside bone
Now I wear the burden shackle
life dampened, imprisoned by this supportless zone
The things I used to do cannot be done today
When I jump or run with unattention
the earth moves and I become the fallen one
Near the wheels of zero gravity
is the only likely remedy
Straps to boots super stiff
a way to ride my lifes riff
Happyness found in action
soft social atraction
from genuine interactions
Im happy that I can walk still
and that Im not terminally ill
Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 5:12 PM UTC
I have one grandmother
And one grandfather.
Cousin Kate has two of each.
When I was young she tried to teach
My to call them Nana B
And Dadda B respectively,
But I guess that was too hard for me
So I just call them
Nana and B.
Nana looks a lot like mom
Except she's got more wrinkles on.
And lipstick that's a perfect pink
And dog treats underneath her sink
And a silver hairbrush,
Creams for foots,
And on occasion she calls me *****
My B, he's from Pier-Dip-Pah-Too.
His real name's John
(My brother's too!)
And B works on the radio
And tells me things I didn't know
About boats. And on the holidays
He always serves glasses
Of Seven-Sideways.
In my family we have this tradition
Called "the annual lake freeze competition".
My aunts and uncles, they all guess
Then me, of course, then all the rest
Which day Lake Ontario
Will freeze right over
So we know
Who. Gets. The Trophy.
Nana, she records the dates
And then with B she sits and waits
Day in, day out
They watch the lake
For one fine day
When no wave breaks the ice
...and someone wins The Trophy.
(One year the lake never froze and there was NO WINNER. My dad is obsessed with Global Warming and no he always votes anti-freeze.)
Now today's my day: January 21st
And I'm so excited I could almost burst
Cause I just know that phone
That's ringing
Is the call to inform me
Of my winning.
Gasp It's for me!
Hand me the phone, Mother ,
Give it here.
Why hello, Nana!
(She says "hello, dear")
Oh. I didn't win.
Well that's okay.
B says its a gamble this game we play.
Turns out it froze yesterday
And the trophy goes to
Cousin Kate??!!
Next year I think I'll vote anti-freeze
And I'll throw big rocks right through the ice.
Or maybe my brother, he'd suffice.
It's just not fair! Kate's won it twice!
But I did get to talk to Nana and B
...and that was nice.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
A cupid with a golden head
A smile on his angelic face
I had to shoot him dead
Before he put me in my place
Because I've been a bad girl
I haven't loved the way I should
My paper heart began to curl
I burned it so no one else could
But in the laws of love and lust
Such things are punishable by the death
He was sent to arrow the unjust
But I was waiting, eager breath by breath
Sitting in a rose garden, quietly debating
His light foots steps began to ring
Every move I was anticipating
He reached for his bow, as I drew the string
And I killed him with his own arrow
A shot right through the head,
I've never had to love again
As soon as I shot the cupid dead
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 11:23 AM UTC
Your relationship's a trap,
Like sand your quick foots gripped,
Like chains delaying freedom
That hold you to your crypt.
Or at least I think it shall,
If careful steps ar'n't ta'en,
Like a lion in a cage
That you right now are ma'in'.
And make it you must soon,
For feelings forced to wait
Become immersed in fear
With nerves that ants inflate
Antsy is the grin
That dawdles with the heart.
You'll sabotage your options
Before you even start.
So make your choice in haste,
Despite your drowned dismay.
To settle for this trap
Or trap yourself your way?
Again the choice is yours
To make or disregard,
But know this, future me:
Happiness is hard.
Oct 7, 2010
Oct 7, 2010 at 12:39 AM UTC
milky white
skin
a freckles skip
tales of love
curled
you’re in my arms
in this time
the world moves forward
your hair falls from your face
my hearts eyes
open
this mornings light
this last kiss
always
one more
kiss
toes
touched
a foots dance
tip toed sheets
finger walked
freckles
tales of love
to many to tell
a dreamers dream
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 10:18 AM UTC
She steps from her bed
Pin-tucked sprigged and lacy.
Piling her hair aloft she moves outside-
Bare-foots along the path
Through the evergreen trees.
Knowing she has a chance to cool her marrow
She approaches the koi filled pool
Listening to water entering water.
She pauses.
Her marrow has been burning
For so many years.
Now she needs it cooler.
As she enters ankle deep
Her lips hiss her heat away.
The blanket **** greens her and the rain
Spits and spatters on her sprigs and lace.
As she tumbles her hair
She stands stock still among darting goldness
As a generation of heat leaves her to her new cold will.
Yet still there burns a sun inside her sudden sated.
She drips and dances towards her new day
Wearing her warm new fancy.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 7:12 PM UTC
Fingers are pointed, talk is prevalent,
Blaming each other, but its slowly growing irrelevant,
This situation has gone past the moment of blame--
--everyone made their mistakes--
--they have to stop this game.
I used to care once, as the others did, but my
Energy was spent and
My will got a dent in it.
Walked in with every confident air, but now i am being ****** back in,
With no, legitimate, time, to spare.
Its time to press that button (emergency!) for outsiders, we see
Their demise, the household
that grew to a di --vid --e
Bad energy, bad karma, whatever you want to call it
Seems that they have to just get on it.
But personal issues and psychological cracks,
Just seems to replace everything that they lack.
It's a "defend myself" game and
"You’re the one to blame", it’s:
| Shame | Stubbornness | Pain | Guilt |
All framed, in
The house that was supposed to be a haven
Is now a grave and I see the smokes of ****
Rather than smokes of fury for
Inspiration and Desperation
To get out of this,
god,
forsaken,
place.
You can only say so much with so much
Conviction and not have experienced what
They have been living and yet,
Someone has to move.
Yet, no one moves.
One foots out the door--
--But then a hand pulls loose:
The walkway’s gone and now there’s no where to choose,
It’s back to negative 0, or wait, is it back more?
The only viable solution is to set aside the differences
And the egos, and pride, that's been dominating and winning,
Just to start over and say:
Hello, I’m not a martyr, i’m just a
Kid in the adult world trying to survive harder
Than anyone else...
...I just want to live.
Believe me.
I had--have--been wishing for a dream.
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 10:08 PM UTC
Bigfoots a jack ***
Strange
He pured us both
Whiskey.
We talked about darwin,
And Goodals new book.
But now hes trying to **** me!
Vegitaraian?
We thought he did.
But now hes trying to **** me.
Its getting dark
I cant smell the cave anymore.
His brown face sounded like a
Blender.
I was just another elk
With them I slept
Like white bones.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC
Let me out
The clock is moving too slow for me
It stares at me, it's laughing
I really don’t wanna be here no more
My foots tapped a hole in the floor
Let me out ,let me out
Rip down the door
Let me out, let me out
This place is a bore
Let me out let me out
I can't be restrained
Let me out let me out
Or I'll go insane
I check the time again it ain't changed
Earth's rotation is to blame
I'm way too tense to be trapped in here
You find me rude but I don’t care
Let me out ,let me out
Rip down the door
Let me out, let me out
This place is a bore
Let me out let me out
I can't be restrained
Let me out let me out
Or I'll go insane
I got no place to go
I just can't be here
Or I'll...I'ill
Explode
This moment in time
Goes by way too slow
I'll lose my mind
If you don’t let me go
Let me out let me out
Rip down the door
Let me out, let me out
This place is a bore
Let me out, let me out
I can't be restrained
Let me out, let me out
Or I'll go insane
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 8:25 PM UTC
I didn't realize how much it hurt
Until the next morning when the toxins escaped my blood.
I didn't realize that blood had pooled in my foot,
Leaving the nastiest of all bruisers.
I didn't realize how it had happened,
But I knew it had been done by someone else.
I didn't realize how much pain it caused,
Then felt the pain when I hit it against the door jamb.
I didn't think that it was broken
I didn't think that going to the hospital was necessary
I didn't think that I should stop running to let it heal
I didn't think it was as bad as it was...
People have had worse then broken foots,
And so I am grateful to only have a broken foot
Because having no hands would be worse
Having no hands mean having no expression through writing
Having no hands means not being able to talk without words
Having no hands is much worse than a broken foot.
So I will give into the pain,
Acknowledge the bruise
And realize that all of this was caused by a girl who had one too many shots
And will live with my punishment
Of a broken foot
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 9:45 AM UTC
At, twelve he wasn't just a boy, ahoy!
Stout cute tender, was he the boy, ahoy!
Moments before he met someone who was not a boy ! Ahoy!
Skipped a beat or 2, the heart ! Ahoy!
Blue gown it was and indeed the smile, which blushed the boy ! Ahoy!
No wonder the boy found his Helen of Troy! Ahoy!
For the world seems to be only her, it was love what he felt the boy! Ahoy!
The horsemen gathered around her, from nowhere came the Roy ! Ahoy!
Grabbed her wrist,
When she tried to resist,
She cried for help, but the boy ! Ahoy!
But the boy, couldn't utter for he was stupefied, for whence he saw her die, with his own eye!
The twilight saw two souls die! Ahoy!
The anger, vengeance isn’t kid’s toy! Ahoy!
Craved for the head of the Roy, the boy, Ahoy!
Desired for the blood of Roy, the boy, Ahoy!
Vengeance gathered courage, foots stepped towards the Roy! Ahoy!
**** the Roy was what he knew, the boy, Ahoy!
Foots gathered pace, faster, faster echoed in mind of the boy, Ahoy!
THUD! Tranquil was in the ambience, no sight of joy!
Scream of boy broke the ice! Made turn around the Roy! Ahoy!
For the boy was soaked in blood, was shot in heart by the guards, boy! Ahoy!
The Roy was stunned to hear the boy cry, for he uttered the last phrase, the boy! ahoy!
“ you’ve killed me twice Roy!
You killed me twice same night, Ahoy! ”
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 5:18 AM UTC
I been fiddlin on this thing for one hundred twenty days
It seems like it just got nothin good to say
I strum and strum all day long
And nothing happens but noise
All I wanna do is play one song
Try to keep up with the boys
But no notes are coming out right
Its sure putting up a fight
I'll try something new
Press a little harder
But thats got my fingers feeling blue
And I'm no music martyr
So I'll take a ****
And see if the strings turn to smoke
And 'course they don't
But I'll keep playing
til' my fingies fall off
Or my calluses turn to leather
Cuz it can rain or pour
These strings just gotta soar
Don't really care if my songs a bore
At least my foots in the door.
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 3:00 AM UTC
I can see my childhood amongst the fenced bomb shelters no longer there.
And the Goats’ Field still lies empty.
The River Shuttle’s gentle banks are gone now, replaced by cement walls.
So Billy can’t scramble , won’t wade and ford.
Cheryl won’t swing and Jenny won’t scream her thrill of horror.
Steve’s feet will stay disappointedly dry – much to his mum’s delight.
The meander remains,
the trees still bow to the much-reduced majesty of the Shuttle,
but we can’t join the dance from the walled edge
– we can only drink in the river’s weak echo.
- Willersley
- Marlborough
- Lamborbey
- Halfway Street
- Ye Olde Black Horse
The snooker hall, full of ‘don’t tell your mother’ chatter
and I can’t reach that blue spot even at a stretch.
The Glade stretches and hops down to re-join the Shuttle
- River Cray
- Foots Cray Meadows
- River Darent
- Darent Valley
to hospital wards full of discarded mothers, falling back into the river and drifting to the Dartford Creek barrier, erected by the well-meaning against the anticipation of that Boxing Day tidal wave
- a calculated sacrifice of our pasts for a hoped-for last laugh.
Aug 9, 2021
Aug 9, 2021 at 1:56 PM UTC
I got down on my knees
and asked the lord above.
help me this one time.
let me live without her love.
it's been so long
since we could agree
on anything other,
than not liking me.
beaten down.
feeling low.
all my pain,
starts to show.
and I can't get down any lower.
you kept me in fear.
can't get down any lower,
it's all crystal clear.
i've found the bottom of the bottle,
my foots on the throttle..
and theres headlights in my eyes.
in the bottom of that bottle,
push'n harder on the throttle,
and theres no way to disguise...
my pain...
my pain...
my pain...
cause I cant get down any lower..
put you way up on high...
cant get down any lower
anything to get by...
you
dont
know
how
I
hurt.
Sep 4, 2010
Sep 4, 2010 at 8:29 PM UTC