"hairpins" poems
When I look at myself, I am not beautiful.
My feet are twisted and gnarled like the wood of an old tree.
My limbs are gangly and thin.
My eyes are too large,
My hair is too straight and too dark,
And my ******* are too small.
In the mirror each day, I cannot tell myself I am a radiant woman.
But when the music starts, I shine.
The notes hit me like rays of the setting sun, and every hue of grace and passion is splayed across
The folds of my dress,
The arch of my back,
The curve of my ankle,
The stretch of my throat.
Each harmony, each crest and fall of sound and feeling
Is a wave that breaks over me,
And I am lost.
I drown in emotion, in the distinct expression of self that only movement can allow,
And in that moment, I forget beauty.
I forget love and hatred and pain and joy, and as I forget I am freed.
I forget because they no longer belong to me.
I have given them to the melody,
To the dance which draws them out of me like venom-
The next move, fraught with the tension of 'goodbye forever',
The next turn, spun by the unraveling of my heart,
The next leap, lent weightless wings by the joy of a first kiss,
The next slow reach carved from the desperation of 'it's all my fault'.
As they leave me, they become me, crashing down on the audience I've also forgotten, burning the bright after-image of my soul into the shadows of theirs.
I have never seen myself beautiful.
I have never looked. I have forgotten to look.
For when the music hits me, it turns me in on myself, and I can see nothing but my own spirit- a shower white hot of sparks-
And the cascade of the notes in folds of velvet against my mind.
I have never seen beautiful, but I have felt it.
It feels like a smooth silk shoe and blisters on my feet,
It feels like the trickle of sweat along my brow and the stab of muscle cramps in my legs, and the scrape of hairpins and sequins.
It feels like breathlessness when the curtains open.
It feels like the worn wooden stage upon which my heart may bleed all it wants.
For it does, it gushes, and it is the ugliness of passion.
It is terrifying, it is raw, it is light-starved and beaten, it is all I have.
And when I get up on a stage, people call it beauty.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 8:11 PM UTC
A friend sends her perfumed carriage
And high-bred horses to fetch me.
I decline the invitation of
My old poetry and wine companion.
I remember the happy days in the lost capital.
We took our ease in the woman's quarters.
The Feast of Lanterns was elaborately celebrated -
Folded pendants, emerald hairpins, brocaded girdles,
New sashes - we competed
To see who was most smartly dressed.
Now I am withering away,
Wind-blown hair, frost temples.
I prefer to stay beyond the curtains,
And listen to talk and laughter
I can no longer share.
2.6k
All I want's a man
To take me out to coffee, that costs too much
Impulsive midnight Wendy's runs
With the alter ego of a natural bed of hair, of which
He is actually obsessed
And will look in anything reflective
Longs for the ocean
But doesn't spend a moment in the water
Wants the sun to warm his skin
But bathes in a bottle of SPF 80
'Cause he knows I'll warm him from within
I won't call our love hotter than the summer we spent
Our temperatures fluctuated faster than the seasons themselves
But we always dressed appropriately
Bundled or shed accordingly
Just to spend our time in the other's climate
Mid-day munchies conquer us both
In different states of mind
Let's hike somewhere
Let's sight-see
Spend somewhere out of your house
Let's take a run at Royal River
Lose hairpins you will keep
Let's spend each waking second together
And in our dreams, while we're asleep
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 10:29 AM UTC
She tells him this better be the last one--
the last first love poem he'll write.
The title, she says, needs to be brief,
something any lover can relate to.
Do you want me to leave the room
while you write it?
No.
With one step she's no longer in the
living room, she's in the middle of the
apartment kitchen. There are two bowls,
two spoons in the sink. The bellowing heater
acts as background, smoothing the space
with its hum. She squeezes a drop of soap
into each bowl. Fills both with hot water.
Any lover needs to be able to relate, she says,
but make sure you set it somewhere romantic--
not Paris, Rome, or anything like that--but
next to a body of water. There should be
birds. Clouds and rain. Not sunshine. Don't
you think?
He thinks.
She works the bowls over with a dishrag.
Dinner, breakfast--whatever you want to call it--was good, she says.
Good.
She dries the bowls, places them in the cabinet.
Have you written a line yet?
Yes.
Can I read it?
Not yet.
When I wake up?
When you wake up.
With a hand to each side of his face,
she denotes the spots he missed shaving
with her index fingers. Here, she says.
Here. Here.
The lines run from the corners of his eyes
as he smiles. Now she marks these.
She kisses him; she doesn't say, I love you.
Not yet.
Wake me up before you go to work, okay?
Okay.
With one step she's in the bedroom.
The bed's a couch.
She pulls the quilt up to her chin.
Her body curls.
She says, Hang out with me in
my dreams.
Wouldn't miss it.
Good morning.
Good morning.
A few minutes later her breath
goes steady, falling in line with
the heater.
The sun starts seeping in through
the blinds. The loose strands of
her hair become gold. He draws
the curtains so the light does not
wake her. She, he types.
In an apartment where once was one--
one toothbrush, one set of sneakers
by the door--now there are two.
Everything paired off and content in
its pairing.
Is a woman, he types. He hits the delete key once.
Then he types N again.
Her makeup bag is on the dining table.
Islands of stray powder dot the bag.
Her brush is on the coffee table
next to the couch. Countless
numbers of hairpins are embedded in the carpet.
I can't make it in today, he says into the receiver.
Yeah, not feeling too good. Thank you, sir. Will do.
Alright. Yeah, you too.
When he presses in beside her, she says, I've been awake
the whole time.
Have not.
Have too. Did you finish it?
Yes.
Can I read it?
After you actually get some sleep.
What'd you call it?
Is a Woman.
I like that.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
To the tune "Red Lips"
Tired of swinging
indolent
I rise with a slender hand
put right
my hair
the dew thick
on frail blossoms
sweat seeping through
my thin robe
and seeing
my friend come
stockings torn
gold hairpins askew
I walk over
blushing
lean against the door
turn my head
grasp the dark green plums
and smell them.
1.6k
Tim sounds nice. I mean reads nice. By what you described, he seems like he treats you alright. Rock n' roll. Movin' on. Proud of you.
Sorry he found that letter I wrote you a few weeks ago. Though it means a lot you kept it. Aren't remnants of past lovers interesting? It's not enough for us to take pieces of each other as we press forward, but we also have to leave little trinkets to remind of the good, the bad, and indifferent times.
Tara left her favorite burnt, metallic necklace with a blue buddha charm embedded in the carpet when I lived at 2307. Thousands of hairpins were hidden throughout the place when Sam and I split. You threw that gypsy bracelet in the grass by the streetlight -- the one I got you in Colorado.
Karen didn't leave much with me. Instead certain shirts and pajama pants of mine -- became hers. She put a smell on them. I still can't wear the clothes; though I also can't get rid of them. I'm a hoarder. Keep all the memories for myself.
Do you ever dream of me?
No, I haven't seen Easter Island again. I looked Sunday night at O'Brien's. I imagine she was in one of those modern restaurants -- Japanese trees, Muzak -- with her white napkin folded neatly in her lap, drinking ice water, and humoring some fast-talking crazer who has a snowball's chance in hell with her. If I ever find the energy, I'd like to be that crazer.
Yes, I'm still night driving. I've got a big adventure planned for tomorrow. I'll tell you all about it. Tell me something honest in your next letter. Something you're afraid to tell me.
I'll learn to accept Tim. I promise.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 4:47 PM UTC
unapproachable
she, an EMSA driver, framed by gasoline rainbows and held together by hairpins,
sat on the back of an ambulance in a Valero station's lot,
corner of 2nd and Kelly, a passerby might have thought her waiting,
but I knew that to be wrong
that radio would go off in the cab, heart attack, broken hip, sideswipe
she'd remain right there picking at the sticky barcode on the back
of her Bic lighter, she couldn't be bothered with the sound of sirens
she had a history and didn't want anymore dates to dictate and memorize
she looked through me past Fox Hollow Lane, past the unwatched children,
past the rusting panels of ice cream truck, into that eternal place that
I thought only French singers' eyes on album covers in the sixties could find---
unapproachable
but
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 2:13 PM UTC
I can still hear you saying,
"This too shall seem trivial,"
everytime this city gets me down.
I keep a picture of you in my wallet,
hell, I've got pictures of you all over
the apartment, and even
a collection of your hairpins,
under the middle cushion of the couch.
It's hard not to waste hours writing
about the summer I spent
all my money on semi-precious stones,
and you blew yours on hotel beds.
When that Mike-Something weatherman
comes on the television,
I still remember your remarks
about his multitude of chins,
and I get sentimental for the sound of my laughter.
It was much finer then.
I've watched wonderful loves
throw bracelets I bought for them,
I've watched quaking bodies
beg to rekindle the flame,
but with you I expected something more.
I hope whichever Carolina
you settled in treats you well.
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 10:34 AM UTC
Sections of hairpins starting to fall
relief in the cold as your back hits the wall
watching the rain as it shoots through your eyes
calming the feelings of all you despise
Hearing them scream while you try and curse
beginning to shout louder as the bubble bursts
Breathin in the dark lookin for a star
finding your way as you search for the bar
blind but painless, killing the light
feeling the room as you grasp for the night
then rolling your fingers through a revelling brain
wonderin if your duvet will go insane
sweating out blood from a memory of a stare
calling a name, wondering if she was really ever there.
Pinkpricking my iris, the beauty of the eye
hearing all the words but hearing a sigh.
walkin on the silence, a memory of a tune
grasping the carpet in the middle of the room
endlessly dancing with an invisible hold
watching and falling as the cards start to fold
too cheerful to fall, too strong to cheer
too beautiful by far to feel this fear
running from the wind when the sky begins to turn
i watch as my passion begins to smoulder and burn
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC
Love From Afar
Under same stars
Fall in love they might
Their families resent with fight
Conflict in distant land
Where they stand
A rich woman
Poor man
Dreams tied to hearts
Led them to part
A modest church
In historic square
Where they eloped
To become forever paired
Homes take to fertile hillside
Built with heritage pride
They start a new name
A family they became
Over large pond
A new world bond
Where life begins
A story of grins
Pasta tins
And century old hairpins
Upon new ground
In a northern town
House they found
Happy voices inside
Fill the silenced sound
Life no longer at stake
When the warm bread begins to bake
Piping hot saucepot
Decendents never forgot
Even now
As is
Forever a parking lot.
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 12:38 PM UTC
There be a tavern in the town.
Today, will be such a special one.
Sunshine and roses.
Several carnations.
Wedding party, out for fun,
Intermingled with everyday drinkers.
Outside in the sunny weather.
Smokers and drinkers,
Men in blue jeans and eye catching black leathers.
Today, should be a special day.
Women in fanciful fascinators, tight fitting dresses, silky tights.
Dancing on tables.
Long into the night.
A flagon of beer, a bottle of wine.
Discussing everything ironically.
With the rest of the crowd.
Which, one of them is mine or hers or even his.
Their drink that is.
Opinions change as the beverages flow.
Talking regular bull as the drink feeds the flow.
The flow of the conversation that is.
Loudly.
By the end of the night, knowing everyone's biz.
There is no volume control, evening flows on twisted tongues.
Look left, look right, straight in front of you, they're starting a fight.
Noise is enhanced by the wailing of sirens,
Those harpies with hairpins, sat on cheap plastic chairs.
Look out you lot, the blues and twos are coming.
Invading your space, just at that moment you're slapping her face.
Such a disgrace.
Bundled into the back of the van.
Two wrecked wretched women.
One stroppy man.
If nothing else fuels arguments, drink sure as hell can.
(c)LIVVI
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 9:49 AM UTC
A trip to the Balkans
with family in tow
and Cycle Albania
to light up the show!
There was Erlis and Rimi
(and Junid to track)
an itinerary
that would not look back!
First stop, Tirana
in the downtown core
with cafes and bars
and music galore
There were hints in the air
of a Communist cast
which the vibrant city
had long moved past
A shuttle to Ohrid
and cruise of the lake
the flora and fauna
left no mistake
Lunch on the terrace
and a trip to St. Naum
the monastery
…so peaceful, and calm
We plateaued to Korçë
through a patchwork of farms
the herdsmen and sheep
held so much charm
A tour through the city
with cultural notes
the cobble stone streets
beyond reproach
A climb through the mountains
in thundering rain
to the Sotire Farm
what a lovely domain!
There were goats and donkeys
and kindly old dogs
but the favorite of all
were the scampering hogs!
We slept like babies
and left in the morn
through the high pine forest
and fields of corn
Down through the mountains
and rivers and streams
the “Presidential Descent”
was an absolute scream!
A freshly paved stretch
(roughly 17k!)
Jaglin was off
and on her way!
A guesthouse for lunch
in the village of Benje
the evening’s Raki
would have its revenge!
To the sanctuary pools
(across the Ottoman bridge)
the healing and soothing
of miracle ridge
Into the valley
and over the gorge
to Gjirokastër
where roots were forged
Alleys and walk ways
and tight quiet streets
castles and churches
that met no defeat
A storybook city
with an historic past
we savored the buildings
and white wall cast
Off to Sarandë
…the Ionian coast!
a rustic old ferry
and ruins, with ghosts
The site of Butrint
“...from a world gone by”
we travelled in time
with a lullaby
Corfu at a distance
Himarë in reach
we swam in the ocean
and drank on the beach
Himarë to Vlorë
a spectacular day!
7 turns to the top
what a view of the bay!
Hairpins and kickbacks
so tranquilly warm
“...*the thighs are burning
like a lightning storm*!”
Lunch at the peak
and down to Vlorë
picking up speed
and a mighty roar!
Winds off the shoreline
sun at a high
the smells and sounds
as seabirds fly
The final stretch
with the finish in view
we crossed the line
…The Peloton Crew!
Sep 11, 2022
Sep 11, 2022 at 11:54 AM UTC
Sleeping faces
Sleeping thoughts
Therefore an escapee
Of what nature wrought.
Standby callers
Standby gaurds
Full length mirrors
That fall in shards.
Extra hairpins
Extra sticks
Girls that won't
Pet dogs with ticks.
Walls of iron
Walls of glass
Men that will never
Deal with class.
Pride in you and
Pride in me
Who shall succed?
We soon shall see.
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 6:11 PM UTC
It seems so hard nowadays to persuade me that I am anything more than a young and dark girl who tends to write down too many terrifying thoughts. I have no other substance or rhyme or reason for any other purpose. I can't put the jumble/tangle/mess of ideas in my head into sequence that another can understand. Even those who tend to think the way I do cannot make the pictures as words into any sort of cloud shape. They used to, and we spoke in languages the natural populace struggled to decode. We his behind palms held to our mouths as we laughed at their furrowed brows and puzzled expression. We controlled them and their thought processes. Now it seems that I have faded too far into our lands in between the stars; even the other people think my jabber too complex to translate. It is futile to rip the pen from my hand, either. I will ***** my fingers with the various hairpins around my bedroom/jail cell. cavern and write in my own blood. It must have the color and consistency of ancient violet ink by now (the type Victorian kings and queens wrote in, mind you) considering all the vats I drink to give me inspiration. If that doesn't function the way I wish, then I will carve the screaming in my frontal lobe in relics and hieroglyphics and runes across the furniture and bookcases and walls in an act of rebellion against your repression of my mind. It grows and grows and the forest in my skull cannot/should not/will not cease until someone/anyone/probably you finally toss me into the "done" pile of the people you discovered, understood, and conquered.
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 12:12 AM UTC
Constantly I must take off the hairpins, the embroidered shirts, and the lint skirts. I must sit on the wooden stool and unbraid my hair, then proceed to cut it short. I must be able to live without them: the conditioning
–their idea of womanhood(genderhood)
Every once in while I must banish them: to know
I can live without them; they are not me ( all those ideas, all that heavy jewelry)
—I am free; I do not weigh
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 6:55 PM UTC
to own the parallel structure of your house, i would
have to peel my own floorboards back, tear them off
like day old bandaids, and install plain oatmeal colored
tiles to lose the meaning of myself. i would restructure
the blueprints of the hallow home of my chest, and leave
no room for any florescent lights. the darkness can’t dim
the fact that i am brimming with regrets and questions
that are quickly turning rotten. the answers are losing their
meaning. coming face to face with the wolf, the dread i
used to get as the sheep, it’s losing its meaning. when
i repainted myself, there were still parts of you lying
around like loose hairpins, but i’m leaving no room
for the loose hairpins. the fear i had turning on the
florescent lights, of seeing my hands painted red
with blood i didn’t know i spilled, was becoming
a learning experience. all this time, i've been seeing
you in my ideal vision: sturdy like steel beams, but
there has always been that marshmallows and tooth
pick-like foundation you've been keeping up around
me. i can't see you as parallel structures anymore. look
at me. did you ever actually look at me without disgust
of the blood i spilled, and tell me things with honesty?
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 2:27 AM UTC
You leave the only way you know how to
In the dead of the night
No explanation, no note
In the morning there will be a hunt
There will be excuses made on your behalf
'Must have gone for a jog'
'Would have left to buy orange juice'
It takes a while for reality to settle
It takes a while for your clothes to be thrown out of the closet
It takes a while before the house loses your scent
Some people take it a step further
They leave with no trace of their existence
No pictures on the mantle
Beds perfectly made as if they had never been slept in
No shoes at the doorway
No stray hairpins or guitar picks or socks
You begin to doubt your own memory
You are left wondering if you loved a ghost
You leave the only way you know how to
With tearful farewells
And eloquent goodbye speeches
You stuff personalised letters into their clenched fists
You leave parts of yourself in their pockets
Beg them to never forget
You make sure that there is no more pain than necessary
You make sure that you are only gone physically
Some people take it a step further
They fill bathroom drawers with their soap bars and lotion
Their notebooks with half finished stories
Are left open on desks
They give themselves a reason to visit
A reason to stay for a couple seconds
Then for coffee
Then the night
When they move half way across the country
They will still call you home
You are left loving an unstable traveller
You leave the only way you know how to
You make it a week long affair
There will be screaming
Ceramics flung across the room and picture frames smashed
Blame passed around like a relay baton
You run a race nobody will win
You leave making sure your car is chased until the end of the road
Apologies dispended as if they are public announcements
There is no silence in your absence
Your voice still echoes in the hallways
Some people take it a step further
It takes them months to pack their bags
Sometimes years
There will be days shrouded with hatred
They leave in parts
One strand of hair at a time
They steal one heart beat at a time
Leaving you cold and numb in the end
They threaten to disappear so many times
That when they finally do you cannot believe it
You are left unable to love again
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 5:55 AM UTC
Wooden mouths engraved with shadows of stillborns
Hairpins stir the wildfires that reside in my head
My spine is an abortive memoir that nobody wishes to read
Mists ablaze with unbound petals kissing the sea to sleep
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 12:44 AM UTC
Sections of hairpins starting to fall,
relief in the cold as you cling to the wall.
Watching the rain as it shoots thru your eyes,
calming the feelings of all that you despise.
Hearing them screamin while you try and curse,
beginning to shout louder as the bubble bursts.
Breathing the the dark looking for a star,
marking your territory as you slide thru the bar.
Blind but painless, killing the light,
feeling the room as you grasp for the night;
then rolling your fingers thru your revelling brain,
wondering if your duvet will go insane.
Sweating out the blood from the memory of a stare,
calling a name, wondering is she was there.
Pinpricking the iris, the beauty of the eye,
hearing all the words in the inch of a sigh.
Walking on the magic of the silence of a tune,
grasping the carpet in the middle of your room.
Endlessly dancing with an invisible hold,
watchin and falling as the cards begin to fold.
To amazing to fall, too strong to cheer,
too beautiful by far to feel this fear.
don't run from the wind when the wind beings to turn,
instead ignite your soul and let your passion burn.....
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 5:11 PM UTC
I will chase you down
If you don’t love me
Fashion hairpins from
Fish ribs
Bring myself to anti-climax
Thinking of your
Valleys and hills
Carry buckets of water
Over all the trails
I’ll teach you the value
Of holding my hand
And the separate pleasure
Meeting for moonlight sonata
In the middle of daybreak
And I will do it
Drag the entire world down
To fit in your palm
I will do it
I’d like to meet you in a daydream
On the foothills of the Appalachia
Spreading seeds and carrying
My harvest basket
I’d meet you for board game night
Across the table
And I’d meet you at a quarter past three
The dead silent night
Lift up my arms and bask in it
Surrounded by all of you
The stars were never this bright until tonight
Oct 25, 2022
Oct 25, 2022 at 1:41 AM UTC
The radio gave me a few thoughts that the rocks agreed upon between basket cases, the ones that we can’t speak and know all about – we aren’t bothered, they’re like the rivers of stories on our palms. Everything’s gone to **** while you say not to forget all we have, like the scattered hairpins, don’t dare forget your *** in the drawer that haunts my running lows (welcome, ghosts).
This introduction was begged, old, all the little loves turned to stone whether I liked it or not. Just a being, learning the tears from the world’s claws.
“Darling, I’m lost.”
http://suchpoeticthoughts.blogspot.com/2013/10/digging.html
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 8:38 PM UTC
Spending my time trying to memorize
every line you gave me so sweetly.
I ain't no pretender n' I ain't no big spender
but have to put up the cash n' believe to the last in the gift that I send her.
Dreams, they're dangerous things.
And their triggers' hairpins:
too much faith or too much stock
and they go off half-cocked.
They are all hope at first
but in short not what they were.
¡Que va!
Regardless, there's something to learn.
What was glimpsed in dark eyes
leaves me yearning inside, so fiercely.
I can't help but give in and see what she's seeing
and put up the time to move down this line and kiss her again.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 1:35 PM UTC
i've heard thunder and seen lightning
every day this week.
had some tough goodbyes over lunch,
wide smiles morphing into pixelated grins.
there's been tears and short breaths
but there's freedom too.
her hairpins still in my car
and the passenger seat remains
adjusted to her.
so maybe this isn't the end,
just life taking a different shape.
Aug 17, 2021
Aug 17, 2021 at 8:39 PM UTC
The morning was cloudy
when we set out on a long drive,
just the two of us,
our car laden with much luggage
and a pile of dreams.
That was long ago,
the 'once upon a time'
of a distant era
when they shook hands and hugged
in farewell,
when they didn't wear
cloth masks that hid their fears.
Overcast skies turned,
as we drove on,
into blazing blinding horizons
bereft of clouds
and brown barren landscapes
bereft of green.
and we thought
we'd turn brown too--
we, our car, our tires,
our breath, our thoughts--
merging into all that
aridness.
But soon we drove into
winding hairpins,
up and up and up,
then down and down
into verdant vistas
where, whizzing past us,
were fat cows with big udders
and their happy calves
and paddies
and green leaves with their trees
and pregnant streams
and men and women
dreaming all their dreams
and we thought
we'd soon arrive.
Did i fall asleep at the wheel
or am i still in a dream?
Or was some spell broken
at the stroke of high noon
when dreams turn into nightmares?
Or did we time travel
into now, into here,
into this strange new era
where fear reigns
and masks rule?
where the only remnant
of our past is Death
and the pain of separation?
Maybe we'll wake up
and resume driving
maybe this is only some
resetting of Time,
some reboot to crush
a bug in the software
that charts all our maps.
Maybe we'll see again
the simple things we knew
back then,
when we knew
how to smile,
how to hug,
to love.
Meanwhile,
we stare.
at a rotating circle
that keeps saying
loading...
loading...
loading ...
Jun 8, 2021
Jun 8, 2021 at 9:57 PM UTC
So many options hurtle through my mind
Latching themselves to logic for no more than pit stops
Ideas dive through chicanes
And screech around hairpins
And always returning to the same place:
Panic.
As each passes I try to leap aboard
To cling on to speeding concepts
But I am either knocked to the ground
Or flung to the side
And crumple into a rag-doll of
Confusion.
But lying here, wrecked, I lose sight of the race
For a while, the sky, the grass, the air all stand still,
My vision returns, filled now with clarity
Colours contrast and no longer fade
And simply, in the midst of my mistake:
Peace.
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 3:36 PM UTC