"jerky" poems
Perched quietly in the shadows of the night,
Observing completely, using all her might,
Untouched the landscape sat; she breathed a sigh,
She leapt and began to fly
She soared through the trees, dark and murky,
Weaving in and out, the ride a little jerky,
Until she reached the clearing, blooming and sprouting,
Where she landed and began scouting
She spotted a baby, small and alone,
Hungry and confused, wanting to be shown,
Flying over to the area in which it sat,
She pulled some wisdom from her hat
Unmoving and silent, she sat as an example,
Showing her apprentice just a little sample,
Teaching patience and perseverance was first on the list,
She didn’t quit until it got the gist
Next thing she knew, her student was growing,
In no time, it was the one doing all the showing,
She took a step back, gazing proudly at her work,
While the child continued doing all the groundwork
Rays peaked out across the horizon in all hues,
Most of which consisted of reds and blues,
She looked at the child, beckoning it to fly on home,
Although she longed to stay and roam
As the sun rose, slow and bright,
She decided to turn and take off in flight,
Twisting and turning through trees and brush,
She flew on quickly, as if in a rush
She spotted it then, modest and small,
The place she longed to go most of all,
Adventures are fun and she liked to roam,
But there’s definitely no place quite like home.
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 10:27 PM UTC
The shopping channel calls to me
It wakes me up at night
To sell me things I do not need
Nor would buy, if I was right
But apparently, there's something wrong
My brain should be re-wired
I only purchase things on here
When I am really over-tired
I have a room specifically
For things bought on TV
I've ginsu knives and shredding blades
And juicers!!!...ninety three!!
For some reason the kitchen things
Just seem to catch my eye
Especially at three a.m.
That's the time I need to buy
I've magic bullets by the score
Processors, I don't need
But, if I ever put them all to use...
An army I could feed
I've got socks for diabetics
Things to make your ******* stand out
I've got exercise machines galore
I've got three things that help gout!
My credit card's at the limit
I know the numbers off by heart
The post man knows me by my name
I even have my own **** cart
To deliver all my purchases
They just load it and deliver
It almost comes here by itself
It's enough to make one shiver
I don't know how it started
I think the countdown clock...ah, yes
I thought it meant the game was ending
I phoned in and bought a dress!!!
I've got jewellery by Joan Rivers
George Foreman grills...they fill my den
I've got perfumes for the women
And lots of things that make you men!
My wife cannot contain me
She's sent me off to get some aid
But, if they sell it on the telly
I'll buy it sure as getting laid
I've bedazzled all my clothing
I eat dried fruit and jerky too
I get Christmas cards from Ronco
I'm a shopping ****** through and through
Each month we have a garage sale
I sell off some of what I've bought
But, then I go and buy it back again
Without a second thought
My friends have all but left me
I rarely go out of the house
I just sit here and go shopping
I don't even see my spouse
Set it and Forget it
That's a phrase I love to say
But wait, there's more...is another one
That helps me through the day
I used the last one on my wife
One night while having ***
She told me "Set it and Forget It"
I'm off to dreamland Tex!!
My shopping's an addiction
One I hope to beat some day
But now, the operator says...
I have to get my card and pay!
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC
your blood shot eyes
so red and round
their juicy plumpness compels me
to eat my baby tomatoes
the pungent smell
of your ***** second-hand smoke
fills me with desire
for some beef jerky
the sickly sight
of your slimy, greasy hair
leave me desperate with longing
for some succulent string cheese
when you scarf down your food
as if the world was ending
i can feel my partially digested turkey sandwich
make its way back up my throat
and spew out
all over your yogurt
ruining it
calculus.
(co-authored)
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 2:36 AM UTC
I saw a monkey masturbatin' in a tree
He looked at me so curiously
One stroke, Two strokes, and then three
Hey jerky monkey
Don't go shootin' your load on me!
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 2:22 AM UTC
A pen is not a tool,
it is an instrument,
and it does not do for an instrument
to be cheap
or poorly made.
If I have a choice, it will be expensive
Ink, not gel.
God forbid a ballpoint Bic.
No.
It will be the kind of pen that makes you want to write,
even when you have no idea what it will be about;
Write,
not for the flow of thoughts to pen to paper,
but for pen to hand to brain,
the sensation of the tip smooth across white ****** paper
swimming up your arm.
Handwriting that is usual jerky
and of questionable legibility
morphing into a graceful scrawl
I would have the kind of pen that rips the words out of me,
if I had my choice.
The pen a bow, the paper a cello.
The notes pouring, spilling, becoming,
composer unsure of where they come from
but suspecting some deep, secret crevice inside them
only touchable by the finest instrument
that they can imagine.
A pen like the head of an infant
in your palm,
so soft and inexplicably right
that you want to hold forever,
because it feels like it belongs in your hand;
cradled plastic as pleasant as downy hair
And with such a pen I will write
and write,
at the start hardly aware
what these words will weave.
A portrait of an artist,
genius or insane?
And the ideas will unravel
until it becomes more than sensation,
the meaning bigger than paper and pen.
Finally, at last.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 5:58 AM UTC
Retail-hunter gatherers pick
clean processed bones, digging graves
with their shiny teeth, studious in
their reveries as they drone
past worlds dumped in the thresher;
the trucked-in fields of film-wrapped
gore splayed lustily before the managers
wound tight in Machiavellian design.
A shepherd herds his flock of
wreathed iron back to its pen, its
skeletal tangle lit in riotous gold by
swords flung from lambent eyes of
pre-dawn’s shunting chariots
Cages shunt and bobble like tugboats
chugging stoic up swimming pool lanes
of nondescript tile, cheered on by shouting
colours to float through archipelagos of
paper towel and chocolate blocks past
the vegemite diaspora, and the arctic
wastelands cased in sliding glass fields of
perfect steady storms as wraiths baked in halogen
ask silent questions of the silverbeet, while
Lana Del Ray’s voice falls like
nightshade—slutty and serene—coating
shelf stackers in a Piaf sadness as the
shelves reach their arms out for more.
The check out chick hatches
a sense of déjà vu as carrots
and biscuits drone towards her
mind berEFT of any twitching
sense of POSsibility that wised
up and flew this leering coop and
deep in her catalogue of grey folds
something stillborn and waxen is
perched on gleaming steel, reeling
out her guts like cassette tape with jerky
nightmare arms and laughing like a
banker watching ***** films, mornings
dull cerise an invocation through
auto-jaws as she bursts out to warble
with magpies in car park’s climbing fire.
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
Just me and a map on this little wood boat lost at sea
My view is nothing but the oceans serene beauty
I have no compass to direct me so I know I'm free
Left to wonder endlessly until my eyes get droopy
Thinking what is to come on this journey
I now realize the only one I can rely on is me
This boat is not sturdy and the waves can be very jerky
Teaching me that life has no guarantee
I envy the weather for being so moody
One second so peaceful and clear the next being so dark and whirly
Now understanding why mother nature isn't fluky
There are reasons for everything I believe that now very firmly
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 3:43 PM UTC
You need a smart Jag,
Not my Fiat.
(That was always the snag -
Now I see it.)
When we dine at The Ritz
I chew jerky.
You're all glamour and glitz -
While I'm quirky.
It ain't gonna work,
There's no maybe.
'Cause we'll both go beserk.
- Shall we, Baby?
© Marcus Lane 2010
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 11:21 AM UTC
Today I saw a frog, dried up from the heat
close by I saw another, cracked upon the street
I counted thirty four in all, mummified and dry
Fifty feet from a dried out pond, I took some time to cry
The pond was once so vibrant, full of turtles and of frogs
But with the drought now here, you could count all of the logs
A stench so strong, it burned your eyes, if you chose to get near
Decomposing life, is all that's left, the pond is dead I fear
The pond, another victim of the crippling, hellish heat
Without the rain, it is just a monster we can't beat
The farmers put a spin on, give a positive sort of line
While they have to put their livestock down, their harvest die-ing on the vine
The fields are bare, the ground is dust, no life from it will come
You see the farmers trying everything, while we just stand there numb
Fans are running in the barns to keep the livestock cool
But the heat, it just gets stronger, you can't even use the pools
You could say they've dropped the middle man, as they grow dehydrated meals
The kiddie park and water park, have no water for their seals
You see the livestock out in the fields, looking for some grass to munch on
But, with the heat taking it all away, their field of grass has now gone
The cows, no longer vibrant, a leather coat on skin and bones
The farmers losing money, they're defaulting on their loans
The barnyards running empty, you can't even see a turkey
The cows themselves are so dried up, that the butcher calls them jerky
A break might come, the tv said, with a cold front moving through
But the grounds too hard to take the rain, what extra damage will it do?
The end result is prices will go up on all we eat
It's this ********* global warming, the creator of this heat
Look around at where you live, go and check your ponds and streams
Take note if they are die-ing, this is real, not in your dreams
Take action where it's needed, conserve water where you can
This is not a local problem, it affects the whole **** land
I saw a frog this morning...he was dead...it made me cry.......
Jul 19, 2012
Jul 19, 2012 at 9:34 AM UTC
*Superimposing marks
On red, swollen lips
Bit and bled from chattering teeth
That tolls nervous as a cuckoo clock chirps.
A bumpy road with
Spidered cracks
Like a well dried jerky strip
Wrinkled, and tough.
Bit and chewed
With no bones underneath
And no guts to go forward.
Warning skies
Of red in the morning.
And thunderstorming nights
That flash with lighting so intense
You'd think an old-age photo party was commenced way up high.
And rain so furious
You'd think the clouds were tearing themselves to pieces.*
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As a cloud,
I think I should add
That we aren't all fluffy and white
Nor scary and dark.
Our seasons do not come easily
For we undergo much
To make it "rain."
And even more to keep it calm.
Thunder is not a weathering crash,
It is yelling from another room.
And the lightning flash,
rage,
That leads to liquid pain.
The hard pressed wind that tosses your hair
Are witheld screams
until tolerance level reaches maximum,
And snaps. Like that old willow's trunk,
Wrenched from the earth,
Because the sky is powerful
And we are only along for the ride.
But, there is sunshine that warms our tops
While the bottoms are in shadow,
wrought in darkness that writhe along uneven surfaces.
But, there is moonlight that makes us gleam,
Like silver was sewn into sides.
But she is not always there,
And as her light fades
So
Do
We.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 1:37 AM UTC
One night while I was sleeping
The bed began to shake
I knew right then without a doubt
That I was wide awake
Here they come once again
To take me for a ride
I saw their flying saucer
It was much too late to hide
So I put on my old blue jeans
And headed for the door
When I saw this giant beam of light
That ****** me off the floor
I knew exactly what they wanted
And no they didn't use a probe
They didn't **** my brains out
Or even ask me to disrobe
They were looking for a hillbilly
To teach them a thing or two
Like how to skin a possum
And how to make rattlesnake stew
Them aliens were some friendly folk
They said they liked the way I talked
They told me that was the reason
That I was the one they stalked
They asked me about beef jerky
And how to tan a hide
I showed them my old **** dog
As they watched me beam with pride
They said they really liked my truck
And wanted to take it for a spin
So I stuck that thing in four-wheel drive
And you should have seen them grin
When the night was finally over
I thought I heard them say
We'll be coming back real soon
As I watched them fly away
I only had one problem
As I sat there on the ground
Them aliens done up and stole
My very best blue tick hound
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 9:00 PM UTC
birches and tastsy jerky wood. resin in the immediate shubbary.... and dust and cobwwebs growing adjacent to the jerky wood. Myraid of birds, ranging from small birch-types to crows. A lingering dominant hawk. A giant possum crossing between borders carrying unborn infants. Dusty walls with abandonded spiderwebs- insect carcassases dangling, still. Pool motors revving in every direction lets of a subtle hum that compliments the planes descending and ascending oer-head
the water is grainy yet cool and healing. the sprinklers function at midnight and sometimes on the weekend. Maintinance trucks, expensive commuter vehicals, modest vehicls, unmanned vehicles, arrowhead trucks, macdonalds trucks, safeway trucks....
the earth is still wheaty and chalky adjacent the jerky trees, the jerky trees have little hairs and appetizing off red color, the bark saddles off with grace and with a satisfying tare.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 6:24 PM UTC
Beef Jerky.
Beef is made from beef,
Jerky is something I have no clue what it's made of.
This poem doesn't rhyme,
but I'm out of time,
so I may as well make it rhyme,
and do something with my time.
Beef Jerky tastes like beef.
Yum.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
I throw my gun in the back of my truck
With it I hope to **** a 12-point buck
While in the woods, BANG! I see the deer fall
I take him home, freeze the meat, and mount his horns on my wall
I grab my pole and tackle box and head to the lake
At this time in the morning, I feel barely awake
There is no school today, I’m glad there is no class
A mighty tug on my line, I hook a large mouth bass
There is nothing like hunting; waiting for the ****
Cutting and cleaning the meat my freezer I’ll soon fill
Deer steaks and deer jerky have such a great taste
And with his head on my wall nothing goes to waste
I like fishing, fishing is fun
Fishing underneath the rising sun
I like catching the fish and putting them in a net
Fish is a great dish when the table is set
My truck is unstoppable; it can’t beat
I slam the door and strap myself in the seat
I start the engine and press the gas to the floor
My truck takes off and my engine lets out a roar
I wouldn’t be able to hunt or fish if it wasn’t for my truck
With it I carry poles, guns, and my fallen buck
I pull my boat with my truck in four-wheel-drive
At my destination I always arrive
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 1:35 PM UTC
I miss you
The cuddles
The video games
You hooked me on cherries and jerky
But I don't really eat that stuff anymore
It makes me miss the night when we stayed up
Playing video games
Watching Tv
And stuffing our faces
With cherries and kettle corn
I miss you
Your kiss
Your hug
Your eyes
I miss the moments
In-between all the wrong ones
Because they were perfect.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 5:25 PM UTC
for the ladies who liquid lunch
<>
the finest young women of the wild west,
(the best of course just might be in Texas)
don’t always get educated in the things best,
no private schools, so somethings sometimes,
like the upscale training of the taste buds,
must be learned on the job, training the palate,
by growing up, self+taught, thank god, yes!
<>
your salty taste
reminds me of ruffled potato chips, bugles, beef jerky
and
your very own brand of
loving tears
it’s true you know,
impossible to eat
just one, which is
why my tonguing
of your body parts,
is unceasingly seizing
I will always be found
attached unbreakably,
to your moving image,
moving inside of me
so sweet your salt,
it’s your story,
your flavored lives living on
in poems unnamed, to disguise
but the authorship of whom,
in body, in mind, so obvious,
cause in all your poems is a tangy
salty
impossible to eat just one
****
<>
p.s. you tease me mean,
cowman,
bbq and béarnaise,
sassafras and edible petals,
molasses and kosher salt,
ingredient combination
which of course
you just made up,
so I show my appreciation
biting your arm so my permanent
teeth marks,
will remind me,
and you too,
just how salty
biting Texas heifers who
can or cannot be salt cured
when
it’s their turn to write some
real good tasting
poetry
****
back for more already?
****
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 2:54 PM UTC
When Peg laughs like Liz
deep woman-hearted laugh
eating beef jerky on Mesa Verde
the good hearts and smarts of women
come back to me, not guessing
any better than they at the time what love
meant, leaving them behind in sandstone time
going to my own cement, sandstone
or good mountain grave
having seen the sharp-shinned and sparrow
hawk flying and at rest, not at peace,
seeking prey from a ponderosa snag.
I left my woman behind to float
alone down the long canyon for feathers
and signs, she's making camp
the moon half full, the sun half high
sky full of planets birds and stars
I look up from the rocks
elements
housekeeping, thinking
love that's learned to love
from earlier loves
laughs remembered, heard
in the laugh of the woman who is my wife.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 8:30 AM UTC
I moved in with Mr McGoo , he seemed a pleasant bloke
a bit chatty for one but then beggars cant be choosers.
He gave me the guest room and a skeleton key and
a King James Bible. He left , mumbling something about an
Optometrist's appointment as he stumbled through the door.
The Flivver coughed, spat and rattled.Mcgoo was in control
and of he roared away still mumbling about pork bellies and such.
Herky jerky relic with a hurdy gurdy horn.
The winding stairs led me hither so down the rail I slid
In search of McGoo venture. To suss where the safe was hid.
Rumor has it that He struck it rich one day and promptly
sailed west and bought the House of Divine Pleasures
overlooking Frisco Bay. Who knew.
As luck would have it, he forgot to close the safe so
there it stood wide open a square hole in the southern wall.
The Standing Shiva glared at me his arms like deadly serpents
One named Beckon the next on Call. The other six arms bristled
with bronze and iron death.The Shiva winked his middle eye and
tears streamed from the other two.
The safe still hung wide open McGoo was such a bounder.
He knew me well and he could tell the weakness in my soul.
for he and I had broken bread and severed heads in youthful
days of yore. He knew I was a scoundrel and a thief.
The Shiva had a weakness for women and the drink and
him with eight arms and such became to be a bit much at the
pleasure spot in Frisco. He had to go. So
I turned and returned from the liquor cabinet a bottle of
McGoo's best bathtub Gin in tow. The Shiva came a running cross,
a smile a mile wide drooling. With arms outstretched, boy he could fetch.
Could not hold his spirits though. Never could. Out cold in no time flat.
The safe gaped open like the grave six deep.
So. I walked up slowly to it and strained to look within
There sat old McGoo's ear trumpet and spare glasses
a handful of rain checks stacked neatly in a corner.
Along with his last will and testament written out in Braille.
Just then I heard the Flivver pop. I had to stop.
close the safe. Empty the flower vase on Shiva.
Up the stairs I bounded. closed my door and started
Sleeping.
Oh McGoo , you've done it again.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 9:51 AM UTC
Tantamount to the crawlspace where your emotions
are dissembled,
is the animalistic focus in your pointed gaze,
Sketchy eyed with jerky limbed motions,
As elusive as you are always around,
Or so it would seem,
Their eyes fall upon you,
no doubt,
You are a vision,
That I do not and have never questioned,
There is a fundamental lack of
hesitancy in your days,
lately you have looked let down,
Thinking of you,
occurs outside the restraints of time,
I would like to be everything with you.
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 12:36 PM UTC
I knew a lady trapper
who would trap out in the styx
she used to be a flapper
back in nineteen twenty-six
I met her in a diner
well not really just a bar
and I told her I'm a miner
as she puffed on her cigar
She said 'Gus your kinda ugly
and your breath stinks awful bad
but I been fussin with my fugly
so I'll tell you why I'm sad
See I love to hunt for ******
it's my passion I can't lie
but I left my love's receiver
cuz she won't eat ****** pie
Now I could have dried some jerky
guess I should have fried some pork
but my ****** tastes so perky
fugly wouldn't touch her fork
Gus I miss her I'm so lonely
she's my only, what a dish
I can't leave her over ******
so from now on tuna fish!"
©2011 Lyn
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 7:29 PM UTC
a person on the metro, six stops from their destination
leafing through a brochure titled How
To Get Rich Quick -
sighing in disgust,
"I was never allowed to go on the metro
when I was young," boasts the woman
sitting beside them, an accessory of
The Scene. a prop
(voice is loud and nasally, and the person - five stops - considers moving)
quick smile, polite:
which means, go away. or, at the very least, don't talk quite
so loud
okay? okay?
a softcover Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary is under the seat, discarded,
Sharpie skidding through it (four stops) at every jolt
of the train.
this is normal, all trains are jerky sometimes, and the loud woman
expresses her concerns.
an old man, older than both people,
older than anything really - coughs.
wet coughs.
the person frowns, but quietly, so
the woman and man won't notice.
(they are well-practiced in the art of subtlety)
three stops. the woman leaves
but the smell lingers
and the dictionary, having slid back
one or two rows for effect
a flock of tourists board. kids in the seats
parents hanging tiredly to safety holds
(be still be quiet keep your hands to yourself, mandy
a little boy of six clinging to the person's jacket with
sticky warm fingers)
two stops, and the boy asks why they look so sad.
what they're reading.
they have perfected the art of silence
but little boys don't understand silence.
the mother hovers in the background
sneaking ***** looks at the person,
wax smudged smile going crooked at the edges
one stop,
the boy asks where they got their hair
(my head;
he is unimpressed)
he is kicking the lonely dictionary
providing it with company,
or maybe unaware.
they leave, and the mother hisses something at them as they pass -
clutches the boy's arm.
the dictionary has been stuck on the word spectral for three days,
and the train hums to life.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 9:28 AM UTC
Coffee is what I need;
Without it my eyes will bleed.
I’m unfit for humanity,
On the edge of insanity;
I’d rather drown in lava
Than forgo my morning java.
Some folks don’t need the jolt;
They wake up with plenty of volts.
They’re pleasant and they’re perky;
Their tongue doesn’t taste like beef jerky.
They’re polite and have good humor,
And filled with love, it’s rumored.
I’d love to arise like them,
And not have to always depend
On coffee to start my day;
But alas, I’m not that way.
So give me a cup and you’ll see a change,
When I get that caffeine in my veins.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 11:35 AM UTC
It's a media night again
Me and youtube
Maybe I'll just go walking around
Walking around until daybreak
Earth, earth
Just keep on doing this
Whatever it is I'm doin'
Try to get a decent job
Can't though
Oh well
I'm sure we
Will likely be at war
With China and Russia soon
I'll be sitting somewhere
Eating some raisins I guess
Looking up at the moon
You know this life
Is so lonely sometimes
Oh well,
At least I got the raisins
And A roof over my head
And besides my housekeeper
Brought me Beef and Ostrich Jerky
Lol
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 12:25 AM UTC
You neatly told me
That your muse is more a student
Of mountain writing
Than of poems; the way they go in
And out, all natural and deserted.
How otherwise can one know
The heart of the matter than
To isolate the heart, at least
For a moment or several, with
What remains of earth and air?
Leave it alone without water.
Send it into the woods with nothing but
A flimsy packet of beef jerky,
No swimwear, and hope
That the sky doesn't pour itself in riot.
So be ready for anything with
The grace to let the self be
Washed, dunked in a lake
Of coffee to emerge what it could
Have been from the beginning.
Jun 14, 2019
Jun 14, 2019 at 2:17 PM UTC
There isn't really any significance in our attempts
The sweater's string is being pulled as we continue to knit
But the string is unraveling and we are left only cold
The pasta on our plate is nothing but an appealing fake
So our bellies are empty and our shoulders are shivering
We lay there limply as we are slowly wrapped in our own string
Wrists and ankles bound by unfulfilled and color-coded dreams
An S & M horror show in the sheets with life, us, & we
Dancing like a jerky ballerina, eyes glazed over now
We used to know how to walk and talk, but we've forgotten how
So as puppets we are told that we are not cold nor hungry
And that everything is fine and everything is as it seems
So we smile, thinking our wooden houses can make us happy
We don't notice that everything is painted the same color
Or girls and boys look exactly like their fathers and mothers
And we are just waiting to be piled onto the dead heap
Of broken toys and broken dreams that sometimes plagues our deep sleep
That feeling when you get really sad sometimes, that's what that is
So cut your strings, and think some things, breathe out as human again
The puppeteer has no time to hear of a few strings snapping
He has his hands full keeping down the human spirit, you know?
And when he's sleeping, cut off his fingers and his little toes
I know you are worried because you are tiny and alone
But he can't do anything if he has nothing to control
If the blade is still ****** do not clean any of it off
Use the blood and blade to cut the strings and soak their wood awash
Wood stained red, breathe life again, their eyes light up with words unsaid
And the lonely alabaster trees are swaying in the breeze
Red streamers tied to the branches to signify what is free
If only someone really had the courage to cut the strings
*I could go for the gritty, teeth-biting, ****** anarchy.*
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 11:14 AM UTC