"italicized" poems
I don't think tunnels can go this deep:
The way the oceans part--
Starfish foam, bubbling for air.
I saw the moon bleeding,
So many hidden cries.
She shouted:
"No fair, no fair...No fair..."
And now the polished skeleton
Bones glisten in the sun.
Taken from the dusty closet,
One by one by one.
Alongside a black journal,
No embellishments,
No lock to conceal shame.
Pages of her history,
Like collected pages of
The suffrage, and at the
Very last page, her dream's name.
Italicized like lies fresh oyster pearls shine.
Glistening in the frost of the night,
The soothing heat of her mind's height.
Tunnels can touch Earth's spine.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 8:58 AM UTC
Wussup, professional Latina?
Diversity been good 2 U?
Water warm enough 4 U?
Shaking down enuf rich gringos
to fund your Non-Profit?
(*speak against capitalismo here*)
Got time for la Revolución after your pedicure today?
(mention the border here)
still watching Oprah, Abuela?
heard from your third ex-husband recently?
Wussup consummate professional.
(*turn on NPR here*)
Got nail polish? Got car waxed? Got investments?
(take a networking business lunch here)
Have you streaked your hair enuf?
(mention indigenismo here)
I hope you are caring well for all the nietos
and still have time to be a tiburona
(insert italicized Spanish word here)
How are all your gente ?
(*mention mujeres fuertes here*)
Hey Latina - when did you move out of the barrio ?
(*mention La Raza here*)
Mujer Latina—wussup.
how is Gringolandia workin' out 4 U ?
(turn off Univision here)
'cause if the oppression gets too bad
you could always move back
to Venezuela
or Chihuahua
or San Juan, or...
(*mention Trump here*)
...Miami?
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 7:01 PM UTC
I am an italicized remark,
your spicy punctuation;
I am your steamy satisfaction,
your permanent vacation.
A unique innuendo,
a read between the lines;
I am a story like no other
as I lick between your thighs.
from Cosmo,
The New Yorker;
A romantic gentleman lover.
A sweet wine you taste-test
and lick around my lips,
I am a kiss you can't resist-
a naked sweat, a seductive bliss.
I am the palm that stings the skin,
a ***** spank than burns within.
I am a moaning, seeping ******
that rumbles with percussion.
I am your emphasized description
although no adjective does justice.
Jul 21, 2010
Jul 21, 2010 at 8:08 AM UTC
1100
The last Night that She lived
It was a Common Night
Except the Dying—this to Us
Made Nature different
We noticed smallest things—
Things overlooked before
By this great light upon our Minds
Italicized—as ’twere.
As We went out and in
Between Her final Room
And Rooms where Those to be alive
Tomorrow were, a Blame
That Others could exist
While She must finish quite
A Jealousy for Her arose
So nearly infinite—
We waited while She passed—
It was a narrow time—
Too jostled were Our Souls to speak
At length the notice came.
She mentioned, and forgot—
Then lightly as a Reed
Bent to the Water, struggled scarce—
Consented, and was dead—
And We—We placed the Hair—
And drew the Head *****
And then an awful leisure was
Belief to regulate—
3.2k
I made a list of all our kisses, starting with just ‘kiss’
Which in the heat of passion was italicized like this:
kiss, then emphasized in variations Kiss! and KISS and KISS
Which even though ethereal somehow added to our bliss.
And later in IM we found that we could really KISS!
I mean in theory still, of course, for physically we missed
The real touch of real lips and autres choses on that list.
And there were funny graphics, I can’t reproduce them here,
But you know the ones we used a lot, they all meant kisses there
The hearton built with < and 3, which always made you smile
And the asterisks and emoticons we used once in a while
And let’s not forget those x’s which a net of crosses wove
*** and xxxx, our ****** book of love.
Soon added to our kisses came words like longingly,
And tenderly, and lingeringly and gentle morningly
Sometimes we gave it lots of tongue, but loving nibbles too
Whenever I’d le pout or tears your lashes would bedew.
These are the ones I can recall, probably there are more
I’m sure you’re itching to remind me from your memory’s vast store
And you can tell me all about them in some poetry well versed
But my love, before you write it, you’ll just have to kiss me first.
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 10:17 PM UTC
"italicized idleness
illuminated by the
tic toc of time;
fueled fluorescent in
the blue confusion of
flickering bulbs &
clinical corridors of
filler conversation."
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
I'm seeking to amass a Collection
of the World's spiritual, mythic and philosophical codices.
I want to collect them out of veneration
for those who came before who have tried to illuminate the Paths:
The following is my library of such books of yet.
Entries in bold are my recommendations;
entries italicized are strongly recommended.
-Old Works:
**Egyptian Book of the Dead
Tibetan Book of the Dead
The Bhagavad Gita
Euclid's Elements**
Tao te Ching (I have 3 translations)
I Ching (2 translations and a workbook)
The Qur'an
The Bible
-Newer Works:
Plato and a Platypus walk into a Bar: Philosophy explained through Jokes
*Quadrivium: Number, Geometry, Music, & Cosmology*
The Pulse of Wisdom - College Eastern Philosophy Book
*Food of the Gods by Terence McKenna*
The Elements of Reason - College Logic Book
1001 Perls of Buddhist Wisdom
*Net of Being by Alex Grey*
*Art Psalms by Alex Grey*
**The Portable Nietzsche
*The Red Book of Jung
The Portable Jung***
The Subtle Body - Encyclopedia of chakras, auras and other personal energy systems.
Who are you? - 101 Ways of Seeing Yourself
--
I seek to compile this Collection
not to have a nice looking bookshelf;
nor do I seek to find which one is right.
I seek to learn from each of these
the lessons that are intrinsic in our Lives;
they're all matters of perspectives.
I want to compile the aspects of each philosophy with which I resonate
and integrate them into my own,
forging a dynamic and holistic individual philosophy.
All of these books are Mystical masterpieces.
All of these books provide insights to the nature of our Holy Reality.
All of these books ultimately attempt to express the same ineffability.
All of these books are interpreted then translated and interpreted again.
The way I see it,
I may as well do it for myself; draw my own conclusions:
Think for myself.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 4:13 AM UTC
~~~
*"But I’ll know my song well
before I start singin’"*
Bob Dylan
"A Hard Rain A-Gonna Fall"
~~~
thought this poem down years ago,
while hiking in a nature preserve,
never wrote it up,
never knew why
I'm a
top-of-lungs shower singer,
a hiking poet,
dripping italicized words from the
four corners of mine eyes
my voice,
*****
my song,
a work in progress,
my brain, says,
challenge,
asking
how dare you sing words,
you know
that I know,
don't know your song well,
well enough,
to start singin'?
the flowers and the fauna,
sea grass, lagoon, deep forest cover, beach,
butterflies hiding in bamboo stalks,
the deer, the fox, the chipmunks
all start laughing at me
*"look upon us,
a single preserve
is our shelter,
a thousand years in the making,
our song has hardly begun
we are a forever
work-in-progress,
just like you
so sing of us, sing of you,
learn the chords as you go along,
finger the word notes,
try out variations,
realize this unfixed change,
is all of us
preserving
that friend
is indeed,
your song
you know it
well enough,
that's why
you have
never stopped tryin' and never stopped
singin'*
~~~
July 2012 ~ 2015
Mashomack Preserve|The Nature Conservancy,
Shelter Island, N.Y.
~~~
http://www.bobdylan.com/us/songs/hard-rains-gonna-fall#ixzz3gFdhKEW1
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 10:37 AM UTC
A storm blew through early, left frost
etched, lit, glistening, on
a window's waking surface.
I sit framed by that translucence,
my daughter aligns, orders
mirroring matroyshka doll members.
I reflect on an essay*, how
poems are a symbol of will,
concluding a pact, perhaps
achieved in diction, image metaphor,
adherence to structure, rhyme, form.
Might these devolve to decoration? Or,
trace the transmission of "will to
commitments," expressing “intent”,
"weakly lost or strongly spent?”
Frost etchings fissure, shift, glint, slide
on their emergent effluence,
configure in gusts of cognition.
I sense a covenant in these lines.
my daughter adjusts her doll's placements,
the promise of one revealed in the other.
Copyright © 2004 Gary Brocks
——————————————
Attribution:
Stanzas 3, 4, and 5 are greatly influenced by my reading the Robert Frost essay titled *THE CONSTANT SYMBOL.
The short phrases in italicized quotes are direct quotes from that essay.
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 11:18 PM UTC
the woman disregards
what's best for me,
( See http://hellopoetry.com/poem/bus-poems-victuals-victim/ )
gives me with kind regard,
what's best for me,
for this is the kindness
that hallmarks
the long lasting kind
bring before your childlike tap tap attention wains,
a treatise on leftover chicken wings
and other such nonsensical
finger food additions,
purposed
to inspire, to find innovation,
in expressing, reclaiming and newly exclaiming
that miscreant four letter word
that appears in the other 99% of les ecrivants
(See the notes)
in some poem writ recent,
pontificated that the
most overused three words,
yes, those abused three,
degraded by overuse,
losing their poetic juice
thru constant repetition,
being nearly
boringly indecent,
even when
boldly italicized,
the impact upon the reader
is in the realm of
"oh yeah, that's nice for you"
Better to be best in show,
deduce how,
to demonstrate
rather than insistently remonstrate,
new ways every day
to say
chicken wings means..
you know what...
Some get tea and oranges,
others get cherished
when our repast is twice recast,
when she feeds me leftover
chicken wings,
both kinds,
spiced and honey just like
l....e should be
do you know why
Silly
has two L's?
Correct.
for the run lies therein,
kissing knuckles when unexpected,
********** the exhausted, tucking them in,
going out for ice cream in the midst of a
polar vortex,
recording the game to watch later,
so her downtown abbey guys,
she can be watching at the
proper English
place and time,
and celebrating life the next day
with leftover chicken wings
and other heartfelt,
but unheart healthy food additions
that folks, is how you writ a poem in deed,
that will be returned to you sevenfold in reads,
when you want to explain how,
you can, truly, sigh,
you know, love another...
with sinful, leftover chicken wings
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
So it's us against ourselves.
The mind is the adversary.
And what is that?
A mere dream within a dream.
What does forever mean?
Some hazy lines...
A blur of self,
A little talk,
Between you and me?
A heart lost in translation is in me, while forever is to be free of wonder.
Humans hungry for home and hopeful for hunger.
Life is one long plunder
For the lost ones of
Silent thunder.
Are these lost ones so lost?
Or will these sons of thunder
Flash like lightning?
How far do you have to go
Before no one understands at all?
As far as the fog found clouding the light that sits quiet in the souls of the stormborn.
The light that breaks the beaten barriers of sound and gives life to the lifeless.
That distant light called Hope by some;
A hope that may only protract disharmony.
A skillful prolongation
To the battered.
It is said that hurt is proof of love,
But what's left to prove
When the uncalmed storm
Engulfs us?
By light I live, but by love I die.
Pray to every god that we are left in the eye.
The only proof we need is meaning, something bold to live by.
But we crave happiness, and there can only be one,
So what could anyone do but try and cry?
First of many, I'll have Joseph title it since I don't feel like I have a place in doing so...
My words are italicized
#love #life #question #storm #existence #meaning #paris #collaboration #joseph
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 9:02 AM UTC
Being a parody of Abou ben Adhem by Leigh Hunt
(See glossary below for translation of italicized words)
By Yossel Zweben (1929- )
Moishe Ben Shlomo (may his nostrils drip!)
Awoke as they approached the landing strip
And saw within the cabin (business class)
A stewardess with an exciting ***
The badge pinned to her ***** said Lorraine.
A life of chutzpah had made Ben Shlomo vain
And to the well-endowed hostess he said
“I bet that I could land us on my head!”
The crew who had endured his endless yack,
Found this the straw that broke the camel’s back,
And to this trumped-up braggart they declared
“Our magazine contains a questionnaire
To test your aptitude to fly this plane.”
“What a metsieh,” thought Moish, wracking his brain
And mentally the crew echoed his thought
As, finally, they got the peace they sought.
When El Al published names that had been blessed.
Oy veh! Ben Shlomo’s name had failed the test.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 12:47 PM UTC
The Wildest Conclusion
Who are you
To tell me
My thoughts
Aren't worth being heard
I deserve
And demand my rights
I might
Shout amendments
First,
Then commence
To irregular common sense
My stability
Is retained
By the imbalance
In my brain
You see,
I can't enable
These "Cain and Able" angels
That rest on your shoulders
Because
I ain't able
Fables
Fly out the mouth
Of an astounding author
His sound
Is profound
His prowess authorized
By his copy written
Signature
Which is his style
Italicized and laid back
Now,
Crack open
Another pack of pens
And draw out
The wildest conclusions
In deep thought
Then listen...
.The world disapproves.
The extent
Of my intentions
Were wilder than I could imagine
So I didn't know
I would take it this far
The words written
Were forbidden
In the foulest belief system
I wouldn't have wrote them
If my outrageous mind
Wasn't dying
From boredom
Boarding off the monsters
That alter ideas
From beneath the bed
They reach my head
And toy with my
Emotions
Tantalize and
Taint my tender mind
Then morph it
To be the tainter!
To picture death
You'll need help
From this
Morbid painter
Why do I
Write so wickedly
Then spread like pandemics
It's
Pandemonium momentarily
Shared with you
With whatsoever
You should do
With
Evil knowledge
Is truth
Look in your hands
I say
"Vice is right"
Can I persuade?
Like a gun used to
****** a murderer
Some executions
Are executed
At the exact moment
Of redemption
How tempting
Is it for
A wholesome man
To make
A half-hearted attempt
At prosperity
Sparingly
Laying in Evil's bed
But never staying
When he awakes
Will he use the tools
Because he learned the trade
Or teach others
To not
It's hard to reach others
When all they believe
Is a happy ending
I conclude
But
The true ending
You can't imagine
Because it's too wild
For you.
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 4:03 PM UTC
I never knew how to
write poetry correctly.
It's not like it comes with an
instruction manual
that reads in italicized letters
"dig so deep into your head that if a brain aneurism were to spontaneously combust, you'd be the first to know about it"
No one told me that my emotions
would corkscrew like falling
meteorites every time I picked
up a pen.
No one told me that the thoughts
would sometimes dry up
and leave me searching like
a dog who buried a bone and
then developed a rare type
of amnesia.
No one told me that sometimes
it would be hard to get the words
onto the page without tears
falling like a liquid avalanche.
There was no instruction manual
or italicized letters. There was only me,
and a lot of lessons to learn.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC
of the wind that speaks multitudes
abounding creation that decries its mournful existence
fluidity of a falling leaf
dwelling of inhabited space
posterity of the pompous
calming blues describing the waters of high noon
reflecting on perspective
qualms of my imagination
nightingale flush
internal beauty of the highest decree
flaunting tact
simple pleasures of breathing
caress my hand, i’ll touch your hair
the blue of mine eyes shines unseen in the night
erstwhile noticed of syllabic manifestations
furtive felicity, comely for the homely
murmurs of softness
love is in the air
i spy, with my little eye, a pond, rotting with life.
a sea, devoid of meaning, as seas are
triangular pencils scratching away
out-dated calendars that hang on a peg
papers that bind us to our word
word that is bound to the papers
thought that is trapped in letters
letters formed into words
assembled into phrases
spoken from the mouth
bingo is the lingo
burning brightness of blithering baboons, begone.
smiling is more than showing teeth
gone are the days of yesterday, tomorrow is near, and yet, never here.
the present of what is that now was but is again
oh, do you ever wonder about the life of an italicized comma?
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 11:11 PM UTC
You stole my breath
but needed only ask.
Gave love freely
and demanded the same back.
You took no ****
so never gave one.
You showed me the way
- my eyes followed you -
to feel no regret.
You were bold and brazen,
I was empathetically italicized,
leaning on you
in times of duress.
You gave and gave and gave and gave and gave
two-bit trinkets
half-assed like alimony.
I took and took and took until
I was overburdened and
rooted in place.
You walked away like an action hero
and never looked back.
You showed me the way
- my eyes followed you -
straight out the window.
Yesterday you gave
me a call. Said
you were fine.
I didn't ask
if you felt my eyes
searching you out
in dreams,
digging deeper through memories
to us, together.
You teaching me to love
selfishly,
showing me the way you did.
My eyes followed you,
followed yours
following her,
and you showed me the way
you felt no regrets.
Perhaps sometime I can show you
how I find my way
straight out the window
and let your eyes follow me
down.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC
Deep in these moments of silent reveries memories are all that remain. It was snowing so hard the wind looked like italicized apologies on a break-up note. Luckily, the hot air is blasting, chipping your expensive no make-up make up. There at a stop sign on the street perhaps waiting for the bus, two girls laugh, they are hanging on to each other for support as they laugh, their laughter creating billows of steamy joy. I thought I'd crack under their warm and comfortable togetherness, instead I let go of the breaks and lurched forward. There was this faint tug persistent that back there was a life reminder: it's not those who have everything but who make the best of everything.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 10:41 AM UTC
This is a Deep poem.
The sound of it resonates in your Soul.
You can tell it's deep for a couple of reasons:
random words are Capitalized and they shouldn't be and it's weird.
I use words like cacophony and Endless.
I talk about things like Conformity and Pain and Myself.
Can't figure out why that word is italicized? I can't either.
I look at the problems of Society and say "I am going to talk about you so hard right now."
The title of it is confusing and you are trying to figure out "Why? That literally has nothing to do with anything in the poem." And I laugh. Marvel at the deepness.
Some stanzas are
weirdly
shaped
but it's all just part of the
poem's
meaning.
In the moment of silence after reading think about this poem and
how RAW
how REAL
how EMOTIONAL
it is.
Everything necessary for a deep poem is in here.
This is a deep Poem. Just trust me.
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 12:31 PM UTC
I am italicized
*We sing and we simmer
Our cosmic tumble tune
Hardly yet wholly
A place without room
Stardust dancing along side our gate
Black hole chancing just beyond our escape*
If that gate can be an escape
An entrance to the unknown world
Fistful of stardust
Blow it to the wind
Let the wind be our guide
Beyond the canvas of our life
Our imagination captured beyond the horizon
*Sunset washes the day clean
Brilliant peach orange blaze
Still left wondering what this all means
I am connected to you
As I am to this tree
Whole and in pieces
Full picture you see
The circle comes round
We dance to it's beat
Evolving masterpieces
Rarely repleat
Fingertips touching
Secrets yielded to soft sigh
Hoping with sore hearts
You'll always feel this high*
In the circle of eternity
The known rhythm is back
In concentric circles
Frenzied steps
Spark that kindles two hearts
Blazing through the night sky
Touch of freedom
Paints the encircled world
Hearts healed with magic potion
Trust emboldens the souls
To soar higher and higher
It’s an eternity
Now, the saga shall continue
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
I AM A ******* ADULT.
At the very least, the status is implied
by the Jenga-tower
of (mostly unopened) envelopes
on top my refrigerator
(which is full of ingredients now,
occasionally,
instead of scraps or dead-end, quick-fix options)
My wine comes in bottles, now;
$6 bottles, on average, but still.
(though I maintain my
unconditional support of the
undeniable
economical benefits and efficiency offered
by pumping it into/out of a box)
Why is the measure of maturity exhaustion?
Two years ago, I bought a file cabinet,
for no other reason
than it seemed like the
'adult'
thing to do at the time.
Inside lies reams of papers
instinct tells me to save.
Some with impressive
time-sensitive, stamped, sealed, italicized importance.
Times New Roman.
PAY ATTENTION.
My plates don't match,
and technically until less than four months ago
I only had one bowl,
but i have a decent can opener and
measuring cups of various degrees.
-No ladle. -
(But how often does one really need a ******* ladle?)
Why is the measure of maturity exhaustion?
A queen-sized mattress
minimizes the volume of my
minimally-spaced apartment.
A point of pride last year
after the 24 it took to shake the twin-sized option.
Sheets with a thread count
low enough for my cat to count to
but I could get some throw pillows,
or a dust ruffle. (do people still have dust ruffles?!)
I am a ******* adult.
What a shock
to discover
from where I sleep on this red denim couch.
(Did I forget to mention, that
I only sleep in my bed like once a month?)
But I can see the file cabinet from here.
Doesn't that count for something?
Why is the measure of maturity exhaustion?
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 3:40 AM UTC
My mind is a graveyard
Full of dead dreams and memories
I wish I never had
Half engraved epitaphs
unable to finish my name
while yours are written in gold
italicized, bold and framed
so I won't ever forget
to put flowers on your grave
but the weeds are growing
and the paint is fading
my happy ever after
is now sleeping six feet under
I wish I didn't have to bury you
I wish I was buried there too
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 12:10 AM UTC
Your bedroom was small
But it held big dreams of mine
I should've known that first night
When you kissed me all too boldly
That what we had would unravel
So coldly
I should've known after 2 days of not hearing from you
All my visions and aspirations with you
Were ultimately untrue.
Your bedroom was small;
4 walls,
But each of them wide enough
To grip me at your calling
I should've known when you
Didn't say hi to me at the party
It wasn't me... it wasn't us,
It was always you.
I should've known
Each I miss you wasn't an "i miss you,"
it was a you missed what I did for you
Your bedroom was dark each time
I laid in it,
In literature class they don't teach you
That foreshadows happens in real life,
In my living room, my mother never warned me about the boy who
Would hold me with no intention of
Making me his wife...y
I should've listened when you told me
You weren't ready,
I shouldn't have italicized and highlighted
Your excuses as acceptable
When all you wanted
Was for my endless desires to be quieted
Because to you a label was unacceptable.
I should've known that a
Second chance,
Shouldn't be granted
To boys who selfishly grasp
At my vulnerability
When it comes to romance
I should've never written poems
Asking myself what it was that
Made you deem me unworthy
I should've realized
After relapse 2 and 3 and 4
That your words would always be
Untrustworthy.
Your bedroom is small,
It can no longer hold me,
Its walls thinned out.
Perhaps my dreams are too wide
Or perhaps I've finally
Found my pride.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 5:02 AM UTC
How do I feel?
You all know how I feel!
I've been telling you all this long year
That I'd rather I died
Than spend any more time
Drowning in stale old trite tears.
How do I feel?
I've screamed how I feel.
I tore at my hair, don't you remember?
The days on that stage
When I fell into rage
Eyes wild, screams silent, wounds tender.
How do I feel?
I've told you how I feel.
I've not stopped my pleas since the fall
When the leaves shriveled and fell
I told you I was in hell
I told everyone, everything, all.
How do I feel?
I've sobbed how I feel.
Over tiles and full plates and porcelain.
My words sound so nice
You forget that they're right
Read the truth from my meek little pen.
Am I okay?
You should know what I'll say.
I've been answering you for a lifetime.
If you'd only listen
You wouldn't be missing
The boldfaced italicized signs.
How do I feel?
Angry sad hurt alone
I feel empty and hopeless and ragged.
I feel as I've felt
For a long time without
Love to make the world's edges less jagged.
Just because my worlds lilt
Doesn't mean I don't tilt
Tiptoed over a death dive.
The emptiness calls
And demands that I fall.
How do I feel?
I feel barely alive.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
i meant (italicized)
to commit
to many things.
i meant (underlined)
to submit to
my authority.
obligation.
restriction.
(pause) deterioration.
i go over the
f o r m u l a
over and
(caps) over
again. one
that no (bold) one
looks at.
but me (underlined).
accepting what i see.
some form of (italicized)
rotary dial coin slot skipping cd broken sink peanut
butter and jelly crust click push breathe particles
layered dust on the window sill.
commited to a mental
institution (meant to).
middle eastern tradition.
no variety (elipse) —sonic boom—
no room for parady (italics) commit
suicide.
a process according
to the scribbles
of man.
and a pattern that
absolutely
nothing
amounts
to (period).
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 7:32 PM UTC