"nubs" poems
Loving me with my shoes off
means loving my long brown legs,
sweet dears, as good as spoons;
and my feet, those two children
let out to play naked. Intricate nubs,
my toes. No longer bound.
And what's more, see toenails and
all ten stages, root by root.
All spirited and wild, this little
piggy went to market and this little piggy
stayed. Long brown legs and long brown toes.
Further up, my darling, the woman
is calling her secrets, little houses,
little tongues that tell you.
There is no one else but us
in this house on the land spit.
The sea wears a bell in its navel.
And I'm your barefoot ***** for a
whole week. Do you care for salami?
No. You'd rather not have a scotch?
No. You don't really drink. You do
drink me. The gulls **** fish,
crying out like three-year-olds.
The surf's a narcotic, calling out,
I am, I am, I am
all night long. Barefoot,
I drum up and down your back.
In the morning I run from door to door
of the cabin playing chase me.
Now you grab me by the ankles.
Now you work your way up the legs
and come to pierce me at my hunger mark
13.4k
I beat my feet against the floor
Thud thud thud
Till the dark red blood
Spews from my new nubs
I bang my head into the wall
Thud thud thud
Till the crimson drips
Drop silently into the mud
I punch the glass window
Thud clash crash
The glass shatters and my fist
Fly’s past the panes
Again and again with no end
In sight
I rage against the night
Violence incarnate
Fury in human form
Flesh and blood storm
No sanity for this mad refugee
Just blood and gore
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 7:38 AM UTC
Sometimes it seems like the only emotion
I ever see 100% of the time
is nervousness.
I have become a master at finding
those little nervous ticks-
chewed fingernails
face scratching
the occasional repetition of one word or another
the occasional downward glance.
sometimes i wonder
if I'm making this girl
(whichever girl)
tick like a clock about ready to explode
and leave it's arms loosing lying upon me
it's innards lying there in front of me
the inner workings, the inner thoughts exposed.
Or if her mind is just wandering to others
and i'm just the one sitting here ,
hoping to find a clock,
never knowing if i have,
my heart beating violently in my chest,
my nails already bitten to nubs,
small holes on my face and neck
where I've scratched the hair off
my hair pushed and pulled
this way and that by nervous hands,
my head **** near exploding with the thought
"opposites attract, but i need a ******* clock
before i myself explode
leaving my arms hanging loose in the air
and my innards raw and exposed
for more than just a lovers eyes"
©Brandon Webb
2012
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 1:36 AM UTC
god, words, where do you start?
when i get like this, i just write my thoughts
is that the same as speaking from the heart?
what heart, what heart?
this thing that beats against my ribs
i'm sure it's just a hollow shell;
pumps blood and oxygen
allows me to live through this hell
but there's nothing more to it
i'm not doing so well
do rhymes make pain sound simpler?
i have a bad habit of using them when i'm heartbroken
rhymes are used to undermine meaning, according to my old English teacher
half rhymes and nursery rhymes and rhyming couplets and sentences left open
to interpretation, to ambiguity, to aching wounds and clinical analysis
i'm thinking of pretentious hipsters and all my therapists as i'm writing this
"the mechanism which allows you to feel is broken"
it wasn't the best movie but that line stuck with me
i think the mechanism which allows me to feel is broken
don't worry, Harry, i know how you feel, Harry
i, too, use the adverb; i, too, feel badly.
the sharp things that cut me, the dull things that bruise me
everything i should feel is either absent or agony.
love, they say; let love in, she heals your thoughts and broken skin!
fickle ***** she is, what lies i've heard her spin.
do you love me when you lie to me, darling love o' mine?
do you love me when you trace your fingers over the nubs of another's spine?
love o' mine, love o' mine, that Touch was supposed to be mine,
divine, divine, beloved and reverent and MINE
it's a good thing i don't want to hold onto you anymore
the rope burns were finally sleeping into my core.
my god, these splinters, i'm bleeding from my fingers
as i try to reach out for something that isn't withered,
because the flowers that you bloomed are shrivelled and abused
i refuse to water them, give them life anew
does that make me a murderer?
well you murdered them, too.
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 10:55 PM UTC
just a little bit o' asbestos
unwrapped from 'round the pipes,
yellow-green arsenic soap
in the bucket to make me clean
to eat... sump'n to munch on
like crunchy lead paint chips
and oh, how i love the smell o'
greasy diesel dip -
it reminds me of my last birthday
when we ate my smoggy cake
the kerosene ran dry that day
and smoked us to the street
our tummy aches that time forsake
'cause doctors cost real money.
but, hey, no choice in winter
- Obamacare or heat -
couldn't type his site with frostbit nubs,
no matter what the hype.
life ain't free,
so as fer me, i doctor fer myself
hell, in 50 years i've seen nothin' yet
some bourbon wouldn't fix.
but never in this tidy place we come to call our poverty
has ever lived the lovely stench
of crisp, green, perfect money.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 10:30 AM UTC
Breathe.
Breathe deep,
and in between
those breaths
bring back
banished beliefs
buried beneath
beyond
broken bonds
and
burnt bliss.
Embers.
Embers everywhere
of emotions
expecting
Elysium’s
elusive embrace.
Roses.
Roses scattering
restlessly;
rarely receiving
reprieve;
reminiscing;
ruing
reproachful ravens
resting
rigidly;
rabidly reaping,
rending
rotten remains,
resenting rainfall
refusing remorse.
Nostalgia.
Nostalgia underneath
neon nightlights;
noticing
nubs,
noises,
nuances;
neither neglecting
nameless
nonbelievers,
nor nurturing
narrow-sighted
naiveté.
Asleep.
Asleep amidst
fleeting azaleas
acknowledging
an abandon
amplifying
already
almighty
affection;
almost
altering
ancient,
ardent,
adamant
air
as an
ageless art.
Loss.
Loss overpowering;
lost love,
lingering longing,
lasting laments.
Lachrymose lovers
left layers
of a
limited life
within
long-forgotten lore;
lest labeled
Loveless;
left
little
longer
living.
Yearning.
Yearning for
the warmth
of home.
Yesterday,
You
were
yelling
‘YES’
at the top
of your lungs,
and
it
was
enough.
Yet
Yggdrasil
yielded
yew
for years
and years;
young,
yellow yeggs
yanked asunder
Yin
from Yang
into the
ever yonder.
Night-time.
Night-time symphonies
nullify
nothingness;
nourishing
Nyx Nightmother’s
need
of newfound
night-thinkers;
napping
nonchalantly
now,
near,
and nevermore.
~D.C.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 10:57 PM UTC
I should love you as an eight year old,
asking to be excused from your third grade class
to go throw up in the bathroom.
Leaning over your desk in fevered prayer,
hunched over two tender nubs of breast.
Sitting down with your counselor
and a pack of giggling girls to have “the talk”
while bleeding into a *** of toilet paper.
I should love you as a twelve year old,
blue eyes lined and lipstick smudged.
Crouched behind the bushes, expelling chunks
of non-digested pizza and coke.
Taking two bottles of tylenol and laying down
on your kitchen floor, watching the broiler burn.
Calling your boyfriend, and whispering
so your mom won’t hear
“I love you, I hate you, don’t go, leave me to die”
I should love you as a fourteen year old,
thin as a pencil, hair black and straight
Walking with a humming in your head
to your eighth grade classes, slipping away
to the library and reading books on dying
and so you steal a bottle of ativan
from your grandfather’s medicine cabinet.
You take 10.
I should love you as you are now.
Seventeen, eyes darkened to a jade,
and burnt out on suicide attempts.
But I don’t.
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 8:00 PM UTC
Hands that look sunburned
at first blush
count the silent ticks of a cognitive clock
grasping and releasing in stilted syncopation:
one-two-three-five (must avoid the four)
Did I remember to lock the front door? Out
of bed—again—freezing feet tumble
down
into slippers
awaiting the circular inevitability. Again, again.
Pad, pad, pad:
light shuffling accompanies the one-two-three-five
pounding in the head; that mind ricocheted with worry—
worry about the front door, the evil intentions of four,
insidious germs and subsequent scrubbing-scrubbing-scrubbing
in bleach and Comet. Pad,
pad, pad to the front door.
It’s one hundred and thirty four steps, so take a baby-shuffle:
still avoiding the four.
Cold, unyielding brass **** Locked.
Deadbolt? Check. Creeping black.
Chain lock? Check. Crawling germs. Oh, god.
Pad, pad, pad to the kitchen.
Clorox-fume greetings in the sparkling sink
from twenty-three minutes before. Never twenty-four.
Clorox on the cracked fingers, blistering
out that imperceptible blackness I know it’s there
blackness choking, bleeding in the bleach.
Scrub brushes, pumice, and fingernail files
wear down the nubs where the blackness may hide.
“Shh” the steaming water soothes
as it stings, scalds. “Shh.” Burn it all out;
conclusion so comforting. So predictably round.
This is the last time I can do this tonight. Pad, pad, pad
back to the bedroom. Downey quilt beckons in lover tones,
pleading pillows nudge against that head, that infernal head
still panicking amongst the softness:
Did I remember to lock the front door?
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 2:14 AM UTC
“I’ll be fine” she said
“The golden apples are within my reach.
I hear the distant thunder
And the flash of lightning
Lights the sky beyond the hills
But if my steps are ever forward
This muddy ground can’t trap my feet
And keep me from the prize I’m seeking.
I need only to climb up that tree.”
“I’ll be OK” she said
I have a sturdy ladder
And the shining apple tree
Is in a meadow not too far away.
It’s heavy - who will help me carry it
And hold it steady while I climb?”
There are many who raise hands
To offer buckets for the fruit
And shaded sheds to store it in.
“Tomorrow starts today” she said.
And dressed in apple picking clothes
With sturdy ladder climbing shoes
She set out across the fields
Where stood the golden apple tree.
Two fell behind along the way
And one decided to sleep in
So as the morning sun grew warm
She was left with just a step stool.
“I can do this” she proclaimed
I can figure out a way
To reach the apples lower down
And put a few into the basket
That replaced the heavy bucket”.
But the storm is closing in -
The metal stool, a lightning rod.
No longer safe out in the open
And not a single apple picked.
“I was over confident” she said
I thought the cheers and smiles all meant
That I could climb that golden tree
And gather apples to sustain me
Through the coming winter’s snows.”
But it appears that smiles and handshakes
Do not morph into a ladder
Tall enough to reach the fruit
That hides amongst the tallest branches.
“I feel despair” she moaned out loud
And flung herself into the brambles
Praying she would find black-berries -
Something to replace the apples
She knew would never be her meal.
But the blooming time was over,
Only withered nubs remained and
All she managed was torn clothing
And bleeding scratches on her fingers.
“I have no hope” she cried
“I’ve wasted all my energy and strength
Chasing visions that can not be mine,
Seeking golden apples I can’t reach.
Trusting hands that tried, but could not help me,
Facing knowledge that the winter will be hungry
And the only safe place is away
Where hands and smiles must be discovered
In a different kind of garden.”
ljm
Jun 24, 2018
Jun 24, 2018 at 9:58 AM UTC
You take there pride, there roar,
what goar..
You take there skin and get some win?
take that shot,
oh whatta sin
there sold just bought.
that thaught must rot..
there little cubs chopped down to nubs,
oh why oh why,
you'd join there clubs You take the time.
to aim for gone,
good by nature, Sorrow spirit, they so wrong
last lion song..
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 3:06 PM UTC
take big, messy bites of plums and pomegranates. carry a pocket knife. use it to clean your teeth. in public especially. if people notice- smile and wave. then go back to plucking the skins out. collect moderately priced perfume and wear a spray or two too much. every day. grow out your nails, grow out your hair. then when the compliments come, clip them short. paint them black. bury your eyes in a buried book. change your routine. wake up an hour earlier and go on a jog, get coffee and a fresh croissant. keep your head up. exchange the air for flavored smoke. stare unapologetically. buy some new ******* put on your favorite lipstick and kiss the mirror. dance to that song every time it comes on. even if there are people in the room. sing into a hair brush and make them want to join in. buy a new box of crayons. wear them down to pathetic little nubs. buy yourself fresh flowers. laugh so hard that people can see if you have cavities. even way in the back. be sure to eat the things that cause them. drink coffee and flavored beer. curse. get tattoos. fall in love, then fall back out. pack up their **** or pack up yours. or maybe leave it all behind. ride a carousel. wear a push up bra and steel toed boots. tell ridiculous lies to people you'll never see again. make funny faces at children when their parents aren't looking. give presents often. challenge yourself to learn a new language. then learn two. leave the cabinets open, and fill them with dishes that don't match. not even a little bit. compliment old ladies. make paper flowers. write love notes. walk slowly past grave yards. get your hands ***** be shameless and loving. own your mistakes. learn from them. even if you have to make them more than once. be courageous and content. stand up for yourself when you need to, be kind- even to yourself. and if someone gives you a reason to smile, make sure you do it. often.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 6:18 PM UTC
Tattooed and holding cleavers,
we chop off our limbs
to give as random gifts
and lop off each other’s
to sew onto ourselves
between rotting brown brick towers
on infinitely numbered streets
in dim drywall suites
all along the gray, hazy horizon
hanging rusting lamps
flicker incandescent light and
swing above our pill heads
whose floating eyes
dilate
to watch drops of blood
mix
as the needle and thread
yank us closer to becoming
clones.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 11:47 AM UTC
electric impulses knaw
at nubs formerly known
as finger tips,
worn down to bits by
the desire to drench
this world with one
simple thing that may
or may not be
everlasting
i'm in search of
a replacement for
flimsy false hopes
and finicky heart pokes,
for flat lined finite
chopped up bits
flying up nostrils
in hysterical hits
even escapists smack
walls from which
they can't slither
through silently,
walls covered in
mirrors full of
faces fueled with
hostility
all the faces are
my own and it's
time i find some grace
before i finally
pull my last astonishing
escape from this place
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 5:36 PM UTC
beside you
breathing you in
watching you from under curtains;
curtains of feathery black.
cologne and heat and dryer sheets,
a scent more like home than my home,
your lips quirk
and your eyes widen
and my heart
skips.
you speak
and i am lost
in your voice,
in the melody that you sing.
you shine; i fade.
you pause, and now
i have observed quietly for too long.
my eyes drop back to
the bitten nubs of my fingernails,
and you continue speaking.
i pull every word from your lips,
twist them,
tuck them into my brain
for another time
when i can imagine the sweet things you could
say.
but these words,
they are not meant for me
my mind wanders,
and my heart misses some beats
one,
two,
and i find myself helpless
watching you, just out of sigh
so close yet so terribly far
unattainable.
i am gasping for air when
you smile -
sudden and fleeting -
my heart skips, once more
then
nothing.
i lock the words away again,
the ones hanging precariously
at the tip
of my tongue
as some things are better left
unsaid.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 11:36 PM UTC
Just out the window
On the passenger side,
Past the sign of red and
Yellow.
A wart climbs from
The mouth of hell
With the grace of
A bewildered elephant
Far from the warmth of
Home and
Picking Cheetos out of
The couch like bugs in
A chimp bonding ritual
Anatomy of
Chubby nubs and
Hulking stumps
I feel
My key *****
Is a pink octopus
Pulling tightly in my chest,
Pumping ink. Now I rest
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 12:35 AM UTC
That day, the sun as bright as yellow-white,
the day Robinhood met Cinderella
on the fairgrounds at Montezuma
and Cervantes white steed was neighing
tied to the fence
and both them,
)Robin and Cindy(
at the same time
went over to try and calm him
and Cervantes tilted ( a bit high drunk stupored )
he was. Spilt the horse's water
all over both of them.
Cinderella's white shirt
became transparent.
Nubs soft curves
all apparent.
Robin stood,
impressed by the display before him.
Then, Maid Marion showed up,
grabbed Robin by the scruff of his neck.
And Cervantes saw Don Quixote
approaching.
Quickly he threw
the horses blanket
over Cinderella's beauty.
He whispered in her ear,
I know this abandoned windmill
near, we might
have a tilt or two,
Cinderella lost a shoe running
to the horse to mount
with Cervantes
whipping reins and dust flied
as they disappeared
to never ever be
seen again.
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 10:57 PM UTC
Eyes out of focus, ears echoing with a hint of reverb,
Pupils alternating on perfect loop, a period to a black hole,
Hair becomes like static, a sound that goes unnoticed ,
Fingers numb, fingertips like nubs, bitten to the core like a rotting apple,
Nerves in the kneecap relay a rhythm to freezer burnt toes,
Bouncing a heel - a nervous and impatient tick -
The words in front are smudged by internal noise, binding brain activity,
Reality renders room for a romantic razor to ready the troops,
Slicing and dicing the fruit - on the cutting board - falling seeds like a hailstorm in July,
To be stuck forever, a coma with a comma to separate answers to commence,
Answers bladed sharp and split open by the distracted mind,
An attention disorder that lives in the people,
The people take drugs, die faster, and hide away from the natural,
The unexplored realm where one can truly find a companion,
Holding hands with Caulfield, innocence is immobilized for eternity,
The shuttle returns - all words loitering become visible, feasible, and manageable once again.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 1:59 PM UTC
I compare my body to art to make myself feel better.
These aren’t stretch marks, they’re lightning.
These aren’t acne scars, they’re a Jackson ******* painting.
——————————————————————————————
Theres something crawling underneath my skin.
I pick at it with
Nails bitten down into nubs.
——————————————————————————————
Some days the girl
Who stares back at me in the mirror
Yells profanities and insults
And my last wall of defense comes crumbling down.
—————————————————————————————-
I’m a *****
Cold, aloof, alone.
I keep my teeth bared.
I keep myself locked in a barbed wire cage.
——————————————————————————————
Self abuse is a tricky topic for most.
We all want to love ourselves,
To open our arms at the end of the day and
Cradle our inner children.
But the second
You open your mouth and
Let cartoon hearts fly out of your throat
You’re branded as “Narcissist”.
So instead,
We scold ourselves.
Whack rulers on our knuckles
Until the blood comes bubbling up.
We pinch and tuck and tease
And swallow bullet sized pills
And spew our lunches in the toilet bowl at school.
And we cling to this hatred
Like a baby clings to its mother.
——————————————————————————————-
I compare my body to art to make myself feel better.
All Mona Lisa smiles and pearl earrings.
An interrupted girl.
I compare my body to art because
I’m already a critic.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 10:47 PM UTC
I bit my nails down to a nub
Am I a ghost? A long forgotten
Memory, eased into your backburner, well
Oiled with the sweat of my lust?
When may I emerge from the
Shadows and proclaim that my
Love may be silent, but
It screams so loud in my ears.
Hey, I am hurting here!
Can you put down your life for one
Moment and just sit and justfucking
Listento me?
Or perhaps the image of myself I held so dear is
Now a killer, destined for
Damnation along with all the other
Souls that murdered everything they touched.
I swear, I didn’t mean to.
But it all just crumpled in my
Hand like ashes and I tried to be delicate, but
I pressed too hard.
I wanted to know if it was alive.
I wanted to be sure that this
Love was real, and not just some
Plastic penny-box letter.
I cannot escape for you.
These bars bind me down and
These walls close me in No
Matter how much I runorrun
Or run into them they won’t
Budge.
Please, just this once?
Maybe, this time if I am strong enough they will
Move
And I will taste freedom
Please **** them
Every single one'a'em ********
I'm gunna shootemdead.
Gunna gunnemdown
We is gunna get ourselfs happy, fer once.
Issa great game, this "life" thing.
Nov 1, 2011
Nov 1, 2011 at 9:25 PM UTC
you are fuller than a baby’s feet,
the nubs that struggle to move and carry
mushrooms to his skull
explode, nuclear
& bleached as white as a diaper
you are that house that lives within
so many children’s arms,
separating for tree-trunks and satellites
but not to hug their father until
bedtime
if he has treated them alright –
you are the heart that swells of blood
green-love on the moon.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 2:08 PM UTC
The Spongecrab was white as snow,
and covered in nubs soft like terrycloth.
"Don't ******* touch it!" they said, but I,
full of wondering anticipation at the sweetness
of the Spongecrab's entrails, and entranced
by the thought of running my hand over his
back, my palm pleasantly tickled by
the cute little Spongecrab... well,
I could not resist.
[This tale is not Snow White.
Happy endings, in all actuality,
happen rather rarely.]
I gaily chased my quarry as he
grapevined across the pale sand,
and just as I brushed his enticing shell,
I fell to my sudden death, heart stopped.
"Heed well the wisdom of Elders," they said,
the villagers; and that night, every villager
fed well on the succulent flesh of the Spongecrab.
A Spongecrab can always be opened if
one uses rubber gloves to open his pretty,
squishy shell, soft as terrycloth.
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 5:35 PM UTC
My fingers barely connect with the keys
Making letters appear in perfectly straight lines,
Misspellings automatically corrected,
Bland sentences erased and replaced
If I ever wrote as well as I intended to
I would work for my words harder than
they've worked for me
I would form thoughts in shallow trenches
Working out every letter, digging the flow
Reopening blisters and blinking on stinging sweat,
if I ever wrote as well as I intended to
Let my verses stretch the length of the valley
Giving the earth a fraction of what
she has given to me
Let them climb the cliffs, bleeding
nubs of fingers guiding their path
Let my words fall to the sky in towers of smoke
And when I am finished
Let them be swallowed, corroded, and filled
Let them dissipate and separate, for no one else
will I ever write as well as I intend to
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
That first Christmas,
We cut four branches,
Under the clouds,
From the three pines
On the other side
Of the backyard hedge.
If I went there today,
I'd see the nubs.
The pail full of sand
Came from Daddy's
Circle of cement making.
We firmly planted
The four branches
And wrapped them
With newspaper chains,
Made with the extra edition
From the morning's route.
That night, the moon streamed
Through the bay window,
Spotlighting our tree.
In later years,
We bought trees from the Farmer's Market,
Roping them with twinkling lights
We plugged in.
Daddy never bought a gift or a card
For any special day;
But he annually re-gifted Canada.
This Christmas, the full moon
Will stream again,
And I will tell
His great grand-daughter
The story about the tenacity
Of paper chains,
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 2:26 PM UTC
“We’ve engineered the world for comfort and ease. Most people rarely step outside of their comfort zones these days—we’re living progressively soft, sterile, temperature-controlled, overfed, under-challenged, safety-netted lives1. And it’s slowly limiting the degree to which we experience our, as the poet Mary Oliver put it, “one wild and precious life.””
Michael Easter, Substack
<>><<>
five months have expired
from when this notion
1st caught my notice
but fallow lay,
unattended, unremarked
unforgiving
of my ignorance and inattention
but it freshly, rightly,
core challenges me
guilty of the underbelly softness
so well described,
I
choose to scribe,
wrestle with angel and devil,
two~on~one human,
and yet, still a
fair fight
"wild and precious!"
how rarely we employ these
adjectives,
that conjure the edginess of an
existence
lest you think,
that we are here to implore, urge,
skydiving, remote wilderness trekking, or other physical states
that set adrenaline on fire,
I am not
afterthat for them
oh, my
wild and precious
is far more treacherous and enthralling
what I beg you to embrace is
no farther than
nubs, knobs and stubbled nibs of your fingers,
the taste buds flowering invisible
on the wily, twisty tongue,
the tiny-vibrating little hairs of your nostril,
two extra large eggy pupils of your two eyes,
here lies danger,
your customized throbbing throbbing your drumming,
leadings
access to the garden of
The truly wild and precious,
the poems you will scribe,
from the safety of your captains chair,,
Throwing caution to the wind compose and depose yourself with bitter questioning,
For which the answered answers must be truly be
wild and precious
cyan sighs,
oaken cries,
furious colorless invasive tears,
steely stabbing personal truths,
yes those wild ones,
in your. chest close held,
spill them like cold coffee,
surrender the precious, and
inward confess your
shame, gains and the relit
that you are not merely
wild and precious
but a sea borne sailor,
a navy voyaging to
to where
danger enthralls
enlivens!
Jun 21, 2025
Jun 21, 2025 at 10:23 AM UTC