"jamming" poems
It seemed the space between us became torn and
Profoundly distanced....................
Jamming bony knuckles and spread eagled fingers,
Lying their mapped out journey.....direction on point patrol....
Adorned by silver decoration, delighting in their skinned habitat
Shafted, deceit punching the recipient of the poison digits
Prodding and pushing their intent....dare you contradict
The intended carved out dose of punishment, Risk and
Safety......not yours and never would be; stooped
Down under the assailing bony palmed attachements
That delivered penetrating power, cupped around
Your arm til it became discoloured, pressure points
Backed you into a corner, up against the grain of the
Brick wall, cold and damp, the odour reaching
And scolding your nostrils with its stale internal vows
Refuse, stretching and protruding its foul remnents
An earlier life, when you were not under threat fades
Your very existance in jeopardy, your eyes pleaded for
Normality, willing someone to hear your silence, grip you
Tightly, not with malice, but with bravery and valour
Right now you need that shining knight, that white
Horse galloping down the blind alleyway, yet you
Know that won't happen for you're already sinking
To the floor, the blow comes sharp and stings, warmth
Exudes and trickles a path downwards, leaving your
Body, finding the cold concrete beneath you, travelling
Outwards................
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 7:58 AM UTC
I love being horribly straightforward. I love sending reckless text messages (because how reckless can a form of digitized communication be?) and telling people I love them and telling people they are absolutely magical humans and I cannot believe they really exist. I love saying, “Kiss me harder,” and “You’re a good person,” and, “You brighten my day.” I live my life as straight-forward as possible.
Because one day, I might get hit by a bus.
I could be walking down the street one day, blasting Rihanna or Fleetwood Mac, jamming so hard that I don’t see the bus coming. I could be walking with a book in my hand, reading until the very end. I could be paying total and complete attention, imagine the impact before it arrives.
And I’d really, really rather not die with some confusing statement I said sitting in the phone or the thoughts or the memory of someone I know, care about, need.
I know how it is—we all want to be mysterious. None of us want to get hurt. None of us want to look desperate. So we wait to respond to texts, phone calls, emails, Facebook messages, Tweets. So we communicate our emotions in how we end our messages (no period this time? Really gonna get them.). So we say vague, half-statements and expect people to read our minds.
But what if we died?
What if the last thing you ever texted that girl was, “I don’t know, whenever,” when she asked when she should come over, even though you really really wanted to see her right now? What if you were head-over-heels in lust with some beautiful human in your Lit. class but you chose to wait 15 seconds before texting them back, only to never get the chance to text them at all?
Maybe it’s weird. Maybe it’s scary. Maybe it seems downright impossible to just be—to just let people know you want them, need them, feel like, in this very moment, you will die if you do not see them, hold them, touch them in some way whether its your feet on their thighs on the couch or your tongue in their mouth or your heart in their hands.
But there is nothing more beautiful than being desperate.
And there is nothing more risky than pretending not to care.
We are young and we are human and we are beautiful and we are not as in control as we think we are. We never know who needs us back. We never know the magic that can arise between ourselves and other humans.
We never know when the bus is coming.
(So go text them back.)
-Rachel C. Lewis
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 8:03 AM UTC
nobody gets the cancer twice.
(a blues guitar riff)
blood in the stool
ain’t nobody’s fool,
whent to high school
did not graduate,
but know it wasn’t no thing I ate
scale greets me friendly like,
long lost buddy from yesterday morn,
‘let get right down to it,
let’s see how much less of you borne
leftover alive from the prior day’
spirit spit blood from my gums,
got me a woman, she’s way over town,
woman said I’m brushing with
too hard a brush, alright, alright,
make no fuss, she’s good to me
nobody’s fool whent to school,
though I did not graduate,
a mean riff is better than a
slow moving woman blues cry,
got the strings to do my screaming
doctor is a fan, name is Jimmy,
played music like last time round,
Jimmy-jamming, dancing in the waiting room,
“that cancer got kick, it’s gonna get ya,
think I told ya that about hunner times before”
‘nobody gets the cancer twice,’
an old wives tale for unlucky po’ somofabitches,
do you some tests, tell ya the specifics,
right now, lay, lay down them new tracks,
no quitting time less the good lord comes a-calling’
blues guitar makes a man
cry shiver scream and shake,
progressions licks and tricks,
so you can’t tell what’s making
a grownup man cry and laugh louder
bring me my medicine
bring me my guitar
all I know is how it makes me feel,
oh baby once a night it’s true,
nobody gets the cancer twice
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 4:00 PM UTC
Birds of a feather,
Not unlike me,
Love fine weather
(When it’s pouring tea).
Manners, wine and dining, too.
Mantis, llama, kangaroo.
Overmade, they do make over.
Things so brittle like the rover
Sent to Mars, the Milky Way,
Bounty, sneaky in its way.
Inbetwixt the words they utter,
They choose bread over the butter.
Frying French and grilling Jerry,
Jamming jars of juicy berry.
Duty-bound, they bound off duty.
Flock together! Fly, my beauties!
Plumes all owned. And not one borrowed.
Standing still amidst the horror…
Jokes aside, and folly ousted,
Peace preferred to putrid bloodshed,
They, like me, are hard to find…
Seems, at last, I’ve lost my mind!
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 4:07 PM UTC
The first thinkers were poets
Naming Mother Earth
Beginning symbolic thinking
Of nature, death and birth
Though themes are often repeated
Love, Beauty and God
Poetry in the guise of Religion
A prophet or a fraud
The poet resurrects the Primitive
Through allegory and similes
Disarming the unknown like explorers
Sublime Prophets and Visionaries
They must lay bare those treasured images
That must be expressed
Unraveling and revealing the sounds
At each soul’s behest
Encompassing the entire Cosmos
So lyrical the beat
The poet’s excitement flows outward
Laid at the Reader’s feet
So original, individual
She won’t examine or explain
Letting go the festering feelings
Disturbances in her brain
He exposes his dark, wounded psyche
Just to release and express
Such capacity to see and compare
Hyperbole at its best
I love, I hate, I suffer
A special dance in rhythm and rhyme
The poet as a buffer
Lessening the pain and sting of time
Laden with symbol and feelings
She gives you sweet relief
From something urgent, revealing
Confusion to belief
Through a cinematic kind of seeing
The poet purges to transform
By leaping through Alice’s looking glass
She never was one to conform
Quite intolerant of convention
Just like The Mad Hatter
His passions immune to all logic
In syncopated patter
Jamming up the poet’s mind
Struggling for expression
Seeking order out of chaos
An infantile regression
Cleaving to his imaginary world
The poet breaks out into words
Creating sound paintings to be unfurled
So his own agony is blurred
She succumbs to storms of passion
With instinctive techniques
Rhymes and rhythm still in fashion
Out of hand flows mystique
The poet mines from his unconscious
The Reader is not blind
For every single line and symbol
Means something to the mind
Causing an inner liberation
Enlightenment or flight
It is a matter of life and death
When darkness turns to light.
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 6:55 PM UTC
Sometimes during class my brain shuts down
and I keep trying and slaving over these numbers
Unfortunately, these equations jumble themselves in my head,
jamming up the gears and halting all progress
This is how far I was able to work today
until my mind jumped off a bridge and now I'm drowning in a pool of
"WHY AM I SO DUMB?"
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 10:29 PM UTC
Beat out a rhythm
With my finger tips
All of the lyrics
Flowing from my lips.
A private dance party
When I'm all alone
I'm a Rockstar in my mirror
With my hairbrush microphone.
And maybe I'll be Rockstar
Someday, someday
Or just here in my bedroom
I have stage fright anyway.
Pump up the volume
No shirt, no pants
Jamming in my socks
My own private dance.
I do it just for fun
When I'm all alone
Rockstar in my mirror
With my hairbrush microphone.
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 5:22 PM UTC
Whistle sounds, alarm beeps
Battle drums, my heart beats
Rising sun, crowing ****
It is here, riddle me
Silent bath, floating thoughts
Towel dry, connected dots
Tucked in shirt, shiny shoes
One quick prayer, banished blues
Speeding cars, crowded trains
Changing lights, fast paced lanes
Blaring horns, jamming doors
Quiet rides, bone-face walks
Smell the air, raise your chin
**** in chair, eye on screen
A sip of coffee and you know you'll win
Welcome to Monday, you can get through
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 12:59 AM UTC
This is Seventeen.
Seventeen is loosely in the beginning of my life. Seventeen is realizing you’ve got a whole lot of life left in front of you. It is accepting that life is a page of writing that has been started, but is nowhere near finished, that a few doors have closed, but many more are still open, that some choices are irrevocable, but some may be changed yet, that there are still many what ifs that need to be figured out.
Seventeen is being caught in the limbo of being seen as an incompetent child and being forced to make adult decisions.
Seventeen is having the freedom to drive anywhere, but having a curfew to stay within.
Seventeen is losing many of the friends you used to have, but keeping the ones who are the closest to you, the ones who understand you the best, the ones you hope to have forever.
Seventeen is being able to stay up late, eating pizza in the park, and play on a playscape trying to be kids for just a little longer.
Seventeen is year long concert series and jamming out to your favorite bands covered in sweat.
Seventeen is dying your hair bright colors, much to your mother’s disparagement, and then changing it a week later.
Seventeen is being forced to choose what you want to do with the rest of your life when your favorite food changes on a daily basis and you have no idea how to function without your mom nagging you.
Seventeen is being excited, scared, sad, angry, hopeful, happy, jealous all at once and trying to deal with it, while still completing your homework on time.
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 1:12 AM UTC
This morning we jogged early
I was back in my flat by six-thirty
From my tenth floor view of the Charles River basin,
The morning was incandescently flushed by the peach-colored sun.
The transparent clouds seemed stylistically stained, artfully workshopped, which offered a softened, Tiffany glass effect wholly worthy of worship.
I can’t stop to admire it. I’m jamming things into suitcases.
Cramming things into boxes, giving things away.
I had a second interview Monday afternoon, for Johns Hopkins med school. They put the question to me:
“The semester starts in 18 days - can you do that?”
“Yes,” I replied, and just like that, I'm a Blue Jay.
Of course, I had to withdraw from the masters program but Harvard gave me a full (95K) refund - I think they’re more excited about my med school admission than I am.
I’m not afraid of discordant notes.
They change the landscape.
Take us to new emotional places.
Any major work is going to have them.
.
.
A song for this:
Hang on Little Tomato by Pink Martini
It's Amazing by Jem
Jul 31, 2025
Jul 31, 2025 at 12:45 AM UTC
I am a white, Jewish girl from Florida.
Hit me.
Hit me with your white girl jokes,
Your Jewish American Princess stereotypes.
I will giggle and squeal right along with you.
Because yeah,
I do order white chocolate mocha frappuchinos from Starbucks,
I Instagram pictures of my nails,
I take selfies, whiten my teeth, straighten my hair,
Shop at Forever21 and drink Naked Juice like it is my job.
Yeah, my daddy buys me things,
I don’t pay for my data plan,
There’s no way in hell I would drive a sedan,
I wear Nike shorts and avoid any nearby cameraman,
And let me tell you, I love jamming out to old school Britney Spears.
Hit me one more time, because none of that means I am any less intelligent,
Any less diligent,
Any less likely to face judgment
Than any other slice of diversity around me –
I am a white, Jewish girl
My nose is not its own cartoon,
I eat bagels (but I absolutely hate lox),
I’m not tan or even the least bit tinted,
And god knows I don’t wear Uggs.
Tell me I need to get married young,
Major in business,
Wear clothes that leave me airless,
Get some of that European gracefulness,
But don’t tell me I’m dumb.
Don’t tell me I’m not thoughtful.
I’m a white girl.
Take a glance at my resourcefulness,
Understand my goals of being ambitious,
Get rid of your own stereotype-inducing cockiness,
And notice me in all of my flawlessness.
Because I am a white girl,
And I am unique, strong, inventive,
Empowered, passionate, adventurous,
Indomitable, unbeatable.
I am an individual –
Not part of some whole that you put me in to stabilize your mold,
Not the example of a societally scatterbrained ***** meant to be your centerfold,
Not a previously worn-out piece of clothing thrown to the gutter unsold,
Rather a human being of my own rules and my own morals
A human being with ideas and intelligence and power,
A white, Jewish girl,
A person.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
Pilsner cap switch blade
tie dye and piccolo
greasers and freaks
with platform feet
muscling in
on the bow legged hoofer
tapping
Bursey Hill Tram
Diamond tuft console
mullets n' ****
angels and saints
(unrestrained)
appropriately trimmed
as 3 mile wreaks havoc
on the nickers and
fighters of penn
Bangers and home boys
hookahs and sheiks
hostile geeks
breaking knuckles and jaws
on the caners and skinners
who are locked
and grinding the root
Desert boot foothills
boardwalk jeans
rainbows and sea fairs
and psychedelic dreams
(the platinum queens
jamming it hard
on the jade room floor)
8 tracks
and fender packs
the hottest summer days
psychedelic haze
center hall, graffiti scrawl
(sinister yet refined!)
covering the subtle
yet striking third ****
Brunswick cues
and red man chew
350 blocks
(on a solid Chevy - stock)
monkeys and beatles
and laugh in scenes
pastel dreams
from the long and coveted
velvet scroll
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 12:39 AM UTC
It's no longer snowing, but dandelions float dead through the air,
landing on the wet soil soul I keep
while my skin is crunching deep.
I have no one to sing about.
Feel I have no one to sing about.
I want someone to sing about after you.
You don't deserve this.
Memories of faces flushed and close play on the wall.
I'm thinking of all I could say,
But the projector clicks and strains from jamming in my head-
It's driving me insane.
And though I tried to stop I lost my reason
With you and the changing season.
I can't remember your smell, still,
I bloodied my fingernails to dig you from my skin.
I have no one to sing about.
Feel I have no one to sing about.
I want someone to sing about after you.
You don't deserve this.
Jan 2, 2010
Jan 2, 2010 at 11:56 AM UTC
Teacher lectures.
Talking students.
Busy hallways.
Quiet librarys.
Running in gym.
Crying in chem.
Numbers & letters.
Words in a book.
Lockers slamming
& jamming.
Study.
Stress.
Test.
School.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 10:52 AM UTC
in trading trees for
skyscrapers
in jamming calloused feet into
crocodile arlo’s
in laying on a flat cot while neon
fires brightened
city windows
the forest remembered
a tepid breeze
pulling a shade over the sun
with summers leaves
leaving it partially
exposed
to flickers of yellow slicing into
a black stream
you dipped your red hair
into when I last saw you.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 11:36 PM UTC
It twas a chunk.
A bootleg papertowel, ziplock baggie, hairband combo
Allowed me to continue
Cutting and subsequently cooking
Perseverance? Check.
Being a bad ***** Check.
Maintaining a sense of humor while I'm gushing blood? Check.
Jamming 90s alternative rock with my nineteen year old brother? Check.
No ******* this time though..
He wouldn't allow such.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC
During my second trimester I felt like getting some fresh air.
I went out cycling through town in the warm sunny day.
Observing the comings and goings of people all around.
The flower cart on the corner, lent a lovely lilac scent to the air.
The street preacher was shouting out his testimonials,
trying to recruit believers to his cause.
Further on as my pedaling took me, I saw a group of boys.
They were pantomiming their favorite rockstars.
Strumming the air for all they were worth and
Jamming to the silent music in their heads.
Down the block past the Bakery, smelling of cinnamon buns,
was the museum. My favorite place to stroll on a quiet day.
The gregarious doorman always wished me "A fine day, Madam!",
as he ushered me into the foyer. He always wore that silly hat that makes me smile.
And, of course, he kept an eye on my red bicycle by the door.
Making my way through the corridors, observing the sculptures, paintings and artifacts.
Wondering at the archaeologists dinosaur finds, mounted above and behind the glass.
Finally, on to see Pandora and her ill-fated decision to open the box.
Letting forth into the world all manner of toxicity. And then, again, opening the box
she set Hope free so we could cope in this danger-laden world.
Ending my museum tour, I contemplated my coming child
and what he would find to make him cry or hope or love
in this world, as I slowly pedaled through the spring infused day.
Feb 4, 2011
Feb 4, 2011 at 6:27 AM UTC
Customers have torn open the Christmas
chocolates. Shoving it in mouths,
shopping bags, children’s eyes.
Quiet. We are shopping. as. a. family.
Smoke accordions out of Santa’s mailbox. The sprinkler system
hisses stale air. Custodians ride by on their metal cart laughing,
sanitation chemicals flickering out of buckets.
The 80 year-old piano player is hammering out Schoenberg.
Customers shove lamps into their shopping bags, shove children
into them.
Turn on the light Jimmy.
The ninth floor is barricaded off by old woman. They
have turned the clearance divans on their sides
and are throwing toasters. Down in the basement,
the security staff have locked themselves into 2’ by 2’
cells. Fetally-positioned, their panting echoes off stone walls. Static
sizzles on the array of sixteen camera screens. Customers
have begin to bow in the reinforced door next to the two-way mirror.
A fat man is leaning against it. He has been dead
for over an hour. Restaurant staff are tearing
down the great tree. Ornaments funnel down pop-crashing
upwards from the floor. Three pound ceramic dinnerware crashes
into the walnut bar The customers are putting mattresses in their bags,
they are putting the offices in their bags. Human resources
are backed into the employee orientation computer lab. Customers
have poured Starbucks on the circuit-breakers. The lights are dimming,
Escalators are jamming. Children scream
I want to see Santa.
Santa is dead. Employees calmly walk over his protruding
belly. The velvet and fat feels good on tired
feet. An inhuman voice garbles
The store will be closing.
Families grab onto shelves, racks, other
families. Employees pick up the registers and slam
them on granite counters. Coins explode out like bells. The rotating
doors are not spinning. They are stuck, crunching on limbs.
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 5:16 PM UTC
It seems that there was this Small Group of Men and Women with "VERY MUCH" Knowledge. Many of their followers were of a Like Opinion,,that THEY YES, had much Knowledge. So, as they Sat around one day, Pondering , AS those with Great Knowledge would do: They came up with the IDEA to make Man and Woman with a NEW type of Body! "Where should we start First, they Queried?" "maybe if we changed the Elbow, BECAUSE people are Always Hitting their Funny-Bone!" "Maybe if we changed the Big and Little Toes, BECAUSE People are always Stubbing their Toes!" "Maybe if we changed their Eyes, BECAUSE People are always getting something in their eyes!" "Maybe if we changed their Fingers, BECAUSE People are always Jamming their Fingers!" "Maybe if we changed their Noses, BECAUSE People are Always stickin it where it shouldn't be!" "Maybe if we changed their Knees, BECAUSE People are Always Weak in the Knees!" "Maybe if we changed their Backs, BECAUSE People are always down in the Back!? "Maybe if we changed their Hearts, BECAUSE People always have Broken Hearts!" "Maybe if we changed their Ears, BECAUSE people are always not hearing!" "Maybe if we changed their Tongues, BECAUSE people are always Wagging them!" "Maybe if we changed their feet, BECAUSE People are always putting their Feet in their Mouths!" "Maybe if we changed their Mouths, BECAUSE people are always Spouting off at the Mouth!" "Maybe if we changed their Minds, BECAUSE People are always changing their Minds!" "Maybe if we changed their Smell, BECAUSE People are always saying ,Something Doesn't smell right !" "Maybe if we changed their NAMES, BECAUSE People are always trying to make a Name for Themselves!" "Maybe if we changed Their stomaches, BECAUSE People are Always saying* They Just Can't Stomach That!" "maybe if we changed their Hair, BECAUSE people are always Coloring or Losing it!" "Maybe if we changed the way they Walk, BECAUSE People are Always getting out of Line!" "Maybe if we changed the way they speak, BECAUSE People are Always speaking Out of Turn!" ,,,,,,,"MAYBE IF WE CHANGED",,,,,, SO, When the Itch in the middle of our Back really needs attention,,,, we Untie our hands from our Sides!
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 4:26 AM UTC
Batteries destroys the mind
You achieve next to nothing with your plug in baby muse
But here you lay, yet again, questing for a Stone Ring that gives a +1 to all of your skills as a sorceress
When somewhere else in the world a kid just made it to the next round of american idol
and who knows, maybe next year you'll be jamming to his hit track on your ipod
while your sitting in the library busting your *** to get the grades to become somebody you dont even know if you want to be
But I'm sure Einstein would agree with me that being something makes more sense than being nothing
Even though when your nothing your something, unless your a giant whole ******* me, Asia, and Justin Beiber into you to fill the void
But at the end of the day, when you really think about it, it's not even about whether or not you did your best, you just need to be able to sleep that night, and accept the day thats passed...not that you have a choice
Because the PVR doesn't work on the LIFE Network
You can't skip back to the beginning of the track, if you could, why not scratch the CD and listenin to a different remix every time
But Jacob knows it's never too late, there's always tomorrow.
So turn off the screen close your eyes and think for a bit, or at least until that late night ice cap wears off.
Are You going to find your call of duty? or spend another day wishing your brain had built-in bluetooth.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 8:34 PM UTC
There ain't nothing backwoods
about this place,
I just heard Sublime blaring
at the local BBQ eatery.
Love is all they got
& that placing was jamming.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
Water is reeked with nicotine
The souls are reeked with Ginsberg
but the heads and the thoughts have both pungent smell like
hot rooster comb flowers
I slept last time the day before yesterday
I saw the ****** Mary so beautiful
in that glow of blue & gold
neons of Bethlehem
thumbing a lift near a cadillac with CD plate
& the jazz was caroling in wet sand
there were twelve bars in the honour of that boy
who has to come here one day finally, ****
he has to come just for jamming in this world
as it's said he could /!/ get all that mess of ours
off ourselves gentlemanly playing the part.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 5:31 AM UTC
*go with your flow cause when you hold
on to fear it slows everyone down
like when your clothes get soaked.
Aren't you tired of listening to that cold sounding channel?
Switching frequencies to love is like donning
a warm flannel blanket but
our minds are a storm of thoughts pouring
down in a rusty trough filled w/ GMO foods
bathed in pesticides--
we've forgotten the well deep inside ourselves
it transcends space and time cause
we're with the divine one teaching us lessons like
a father does with sons and sometimes we don't understand,
it's ok, we're human
class is always in session
jamming like musicians listening for the groove--
the beat and rhythm our self produces to dance to,
a soothing tune like fresh water splashing our dry tongue
a song sung from nourished hearts
where every action is artistic as we listen to our one connection
hitting our ear playing our lungs like bagpipes
bodies in vibration swaying with reckless abandon
dancing like when man first discovered fire
to enlighten up a whole nation.*
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 4:05 AM UTC
I miss the feeling of pure happiness I got when I was able to run around in the rain and not get in trouble for dirtying my clothes.
I miss staying outside on warm summer nights with my brothers catching fireflies until we were forced inside.
I miss jamming out to "heart and soul" on the piano with my dad, thinking it was the coolest thing in the world.
I miss my grandma telling me not to roll down the hill with no shirt on because I would be itchy. (But I did of course anyway. Several times.)
I miss waiting for the heaviest snowfall, and going outside for hours to build a snowfort. (Even though we got cold and kicked it down anyway.)
I miss being carefree. Only worrying about what mom was cooking for dinner.
Most of all, I miss how much more the little things meant to me.
I long for those feelings again.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 12:05 AM UTC
Under prickled probably-a-berry-bush
overhead the scented magistrate and the muffled cough
of one emberassed to be viral
she's somewhere on the a-scale, but she is so very divine
zero public humility, whopee cushion existentialism
'I didn't do it, you did it.'
Oh right, thanks for putting your hands up
now turn around and lay your chest on the front of my squad car
sleep again and I'll wake you like Royalty once woke the jester.
jam your front toe on the archway
so you can be the vocals in my band
we'll be jamming next week, if you care to join us?
I understand.
It's not as much effort as sudoku
if you ask me.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 5:52 PM UTC