"nudges" poems
Make your choices
Make them well
Make them firm
And do not dwell
The crevice beckons
Gaping wide
The patience and moral
Of time and tide
Subtle hints to change your mind
Breaking passion in its prime
Gentle nudges, slight whispers
Slow steps, slyness sublime
Pave the way, set in stone
Bleeding thorns, satisfying rose
Brighten path, shining through
Awaken from your long repose
So walk the plank
They’ll tell you all
For the blinding light
At the end of it all
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC
Friend one:
Reads "Rotten Tomatoes"
Always early, parks in a handicap zone
Friend two:
quietly disapproves
knows Friend one walked her dog a mile earlier
Friend one:
moves her car
digs out two waters, chocolate
and back pillow
buys peace and tickets
Friend two:
catches sneeze with *** of tissue
aggravated exchange:
about walking too fast ahead.
“Are you not my friend? Walk with me!”
Buys popcorn
Friend one:
wants seats on the end
for handy bathroom runs
Friend two:
does not want “the blow by blow” of reasons
just not in rafters
sneezes, and says so
trips
spills popcorn on the stairs
Friend one:
Sets up “camp”
Friend two:
holds crap
Friend one:
Settles in, builds her "nest"
opens water bottles
arranges back pillow
half-a-million napkins
“Want your jacket?”
Friend two:
holds popcorn, helps Friend one with jacket
Friend one:
pushes button for her seat back
seat sounds like a ****
Friend two:
says so, both laugh like fools
Friend two sneezes loudly, rubs her eyes
loses self in movie
Friend one:
starts to snore quietly
Friend two:
nudges her
Friend one:
(Who is never really snoozing)
runs out to restroom
misses best part of movie
Comes back,
“What happened?”
What happened?”
Friend two:
aggravated
hushes her
takes allergy pill
Friend one:
weeping at the end, watches all the credits
starts her review
apologizing to the kids of theater-cleaning-crew
popcorn, napkins, tissues everywhere
Friend two:
Sneezes yet again
Friend one:
Knows all the stars--
of friendship
being how she is one :)
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 11:52 PM UTC
A bag full of water
Little goldfish swim around
Nudge the bag, explore your world
Tell me all that you have found
Let me know your in there
Little nudges, little kicks
Let me see those acrobatics
Show me all your tricks
You are my little goldfish
With tiny little feet
Little arms
Little legs
I can't wait for us to meet
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 3:02 PM UTC
Probably just a man with his gloves on backwards
Darkwood doves in his outercoat pocket
figs and fossils hanging off his earlobes
silky cigarette smoke scooting up his fingers
got a moody mad eye and he knows how to use it
when he gets a brain block,
he breaks it with a breeze block
nudges out mice and shrews from his foot box
fixes up his old bow-tie for the foxtrot
there gonna see his burnt out knees and elbows
easy to fix though, with a bit of Velcro
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 12:17 PM UTC
Charlie and D sitting in a tree, Henry VIII comes along, chops down the tree.
part of me constantly and perversely anticipates
what Islam holds dear, the cult of the moon
rather than the sun - sleeping nudges of inquiry
and reminiscence of Freud rather than this constant
pulverisation of scientific safety-nets -
the sun and the scam of diet - Narcissus myth
all too apparent, too self-conscious to feed
the beauty, laboratory type beauty,
statistician's paradise - sun and skin cancer collective,
i'm not an Arab, and i never will be,
but this sort of weather and jet-stream excess isn't
exactly helping either - Einstein might have
saved you from exacting the thought process
(never experiment with it, never)
behind Newtonian cause & effect, but this ****
isn't going away, and you won't be exactly barnacle
jumping mad with Jack & Jill if you voice your
concerns; for all that urbanity the village life
is having a comeback - hello brick, hello tree,
hello tomorrow: the day of never-be -
the Spaniards had a second try at an inquisition
via Gibraltar - the Scots sailed to Brussels -
the village life is having a comeback -
the Americans are hoarding guns prior to enacting
scenes from Bastille Sq. with the guillotine -
they don't know it yet, but they're hoarding guns
to topple the government over - elsewhere
a bunch of Palestinians were throwing stones
at bullseyes for a fluffy toy in a theme park.
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 11:35 AM UTC
Giant yellow paws tap-dance on the porch
Her fat tail wags so violent you stand clear of the back end
Hip-hop, hip-hop, and an occasional skip
Her whole body shouts "It's time! It's time! Hooray!"
You might think she had never been fed
Except that she is huge
Her half-crazy labrador grin is fixed
She nudges you toward the bowl
Thanks you with a wet nose on clean clothes
Happiness in the morning
Happiness in a 40lb bag
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 8:52 AM UTC
Dear Friend whom I love,
Yes I said love,
but don't worry
I am not talking about dates
or chocolate hearts or kisses
I'm just talking about being a person you trust,
who actually listens
and who you actually listen to
the one relentlessly praying,
who nudges
and even slaps you around sometimes,
that points you in the right direction
and in doing so,
I'm reminded of the right direction as well
So listen to me now:
stop
stop
lying to,
cheating,
short changing,
manipulating,
exhausting,
angering,
upsetting,
breaking .....
yourself
I know those are strange things to hear, because
you are "just fine" ...
But you gotta know:
you deserve more than what you accept
believe me, I've done the same thing for the past three years
not exactly the way you have, but it doesn't matter
I know you think I'm naive but
the root of the problem is the same
we are accepting the love we think we deserve
and i know that is a movie line
but for a long time
I believed it wasn't scripted for me to have love
so I accepted none, gave none
and I know you felt that as well,
then we both started consuming what we could find at the bottom of the barrel
because trying to open up to the right thing
seems like it would hurt so much more
but you don't have to sit at the bottom
you can have better
and better is being okay with who you are;
not seeking comfort or validation
from any part of this world
(I hope You know what I mean)
and I realize that abandonment requires giving up things,
but sometimes thats what we need
I am still trying to give up some of my closet secrets
But it is SOOO worth it!
and it is possible, if you want it
and I know you feel you want what you have now
But I know that you want more!
If nothing else, stop for my sake.
Yes, I'll be selfish. I don't care.
I haven't even known you for a year but…
Watching your heart break
through the window where I have to watch your life
as you hold onto brokenness
is breaking me ...
(Maybe cause it reminds me of myself)
I wish I could say it doesn't nearly bring me to tears,
but I am not that calloused.
Life has served me a hard play, like you
but His Love restored my softness;
has kept me sane.
Kept me from taking my life when I felt useless and worthless
because He told me I was worth something,
even in a dark psychiatric ward.
And I am still learning how in Him I am worth something
He reminds me when people, like you,
reach out to me…
I know you hear it every Sunday,
but the love you want is not that far.
It is not a secret, or shallow touch,
it is not security, attention, momentary bliss of distractions…
its nothing but sacrifice of The Loving Friend.
Recognize you are loved by the One who knows you and understands,
Far better than a girl with years of experience in psychological analyzing
and running on broken parts
I love you friend, and I would love for you to hear me.
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
My walls will cave in (just like placards stacked up horizontally fall back with the wind) along with every wave of anxiety-
Right then, I will fall short of words, or rather lose the intelligence of speaking-
Goosebumps, butterflies, shivers and my heart dipping into the cold Pacific won't just be defense mechanisms.
My heart will appear to jolt awake and then dead repeatedly by the society I put myself in;
I will feel electricity running around in my veins, often sparking out of my eyes as the salty tears that trigger short circuits
The ones they say could be caused by the heat-
Indeed- but it's also the cold, the wind, rain and the snow
Words like unknown, unforeseen and anonymous manifesting and getting under my skin- make my jaws quiver and heart dip.
Often my gut nudges me to stand and to speak and to, for once, not fear an omen before I deliver a speech,
But when I speak, though my mouth moves to enunciate what I remembered from the paper,
And as I attempt to collect and reflect my confidence through my features,
My fingers tremble as I try to fit them into my fists behind my back-
These legs shiver behind the pedestal, hidden under slacks.
For people think these mere trifles shouldn't ******* the silhouette that I bear,
Fear of the unknown? Don't be scared, scared!
My nerve ends nervously make my fingers dance as I attempt to provide them a temporary occupation-
'Cross your fingers, close your fists,
Pretend to text, you're better than this.'
So dear me, oh dear me I am sorry-
I am sorry for constantly holding you back;
Sorry for all the chances I did not let you take, all because
I sometimes tend to diverge my faults out as through a prism,
And have always been someone who can never jeopardize her pursuit for perfection.
Sorry, for the seeds of my anxiety have given birth to the roots of my skepticism-
For I paint doubt over every pretty scenery you etch in my mind,
My inhibitions and myself, thinking things over, rewind, rewind.
If I were Rapunzel my anxiety would be the tower that holds me encapsulated- a hostage;
With no demands whatsoever, only a plain, ruthless, endless need to cause damage.
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 9:05 AM UTC
i.
caren forgot about her morning. caren forgot it was wednesday. caren had an event and she was not there.
caren is a shadow. caren is an absence of space. caren is a gap that people shy away from, women in black dresses sidestepping past her memory.
caren is a woman with a streetcar. caren is a woman with an office job. caren is a woman with a social network. caren goes to functions. caren is no longer a function, but a product of her own actions.
caren forgot herself.
ii.
shattered windshields. broken glass like triangle teeth. more monsters lurk in mirrors than in the recesses of the closet. behemoths wait by water coolers, demons sit in sweaty three-by-fours. the devil wears a motorcycle helmet and caren hasn't learned from her mistakes.
iii.
run a red light. it's december and she's egging on the new year. frosted features and blinkers hide hot flashes. she's impatient for her age, a businesswoman at her best.
a shift in gear. a change in mood. road rage, road rash. a few words from a dark knight on a whinnying bike.
iv.
lane changes and unintentional nudges. motorcycle launches the devil like a dove to heaven. caren stays earthbound, blood spilled to nourish the ground. fertilizer runs through her veins, and vampire trees in city parks drink it up. bystanders drink it up.
v.
caren is a casualty. caren is the victim of her own habits.
caren is a corpse in a coffin. caren is an elephant in the viewing room.
caren is to blame in eyes and minds. caren is condemned in whispers, but caren is lamented out loud, so caren is proud.
caren got **** done.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
leather skinned harlots
in their pre-washed jeans
and make with sticky fingers the shiny jewels
and the keys to proverbial kingdoms
but nobody notices
everybody is too busy celebrating the
return of the same old same old
and her ten trick pony
shes a fire in the ***** of many a man
good thing most of them take medications for it
but she is as hard to cure as her burning desires
the happy girls are neatly dressed
perfumed and powdered in evening dresses
nothing it would seem can get in the way
of tonight's entertainment
song and dance numbers performed with zeal
and more than a touch of class by some famous actor
who name has faded away
but his dreams are still alive
up there in bright lights on the marquee
all he wants is that second chance
like lightening striking a third time
the townsfolk all gather there at the edge of the stage
to see the show and cheer on his rise to stardom
everyone except the girl with the rose tattoo
she was still at the bar trying to drowned her sorrows
in whiskey and spilled tears
her and her pony had enough of this town
but they had no place else to go
aint much room in the world for someone like her
the same old same old is hard way to live
she tries to smile but it comes out shouts of misery
her pony nudges her arm and looks to the east and the rising sun
time to go but she dosn't care
shes got a few tricks of her own
shes gonna marry the actor
squeeze out a few ankle-biters and get the picket fence
to put around the little brats
keep em in check
seems like every time you turn around
there is somebody trying to one up you
the new girl in town has a mechanical pony
and comes with a text book on std's of the soul
she will make alot of men happy someday
but not today
today they all have leather skinned harlots
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 10:14 PM UTC
I look at you .. your countenance and demeneour .. how one eyes follows the other and curls of your hair address this courtship unknowingly .. and at a gaze when all at once, my eyes brush off your glance, . hiding in plain sight, what our gentle nudges couldn't hide ..
You do not say .. in fear and worry for what might, I do not ask .. illusions of my habits overcomes.. and yet, we nurture that infinitesimally small fire .. hoping meekly in our hearts .. that something or some force would cater to our reconciliation .. but it never does.
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 9:51 AM UTC
Surreptitious incitement,
Deliberate grazes,
Salacious gazes,
Languid depravity,
Lazily gnawing at my cravings.
Nudges of adoration,
Filling my concavities of falsehoods.
Seemingly small pensive moments,
Instigating momentous intrigue.
Cavernous aches where your heart should beat against mine.
Brushing against destitution,
While we wrestle involuntary solitude.
Day dreams leave me shamelessly wondering,
For you are abstract,
Asunder,
Yet even quixotically,
You leave me enamored.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 5:59 AM UTC
She comes in nuzzling,
full of salt, full of froth;
lingers, indulging in sun
Slowly then goes, taking some tender earth
making it pure.
She nudges again,
this time with a shell,
pouring its secrets, a hum and some cries.
I hold it naively, by my ear
it soothes and smothers, her perpetual low rumble.
She comes in nuzzling,
and parts again
Our oft affair remains...
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
Eve's on Highway 70.
Been on it for some four hours.
After dialing the ten digits on
the cracked cell screen,
she turns it on speakerphone.
It rings once.
To the side of the road, a sign reads,
World's Tallest Prairie Dog.
It rings twice.
She wonders how long the wind
has been red; how long until
the red sun gives up.
It rings three times.
There are birds flying up ahead.
She wants to call them by name.
But what good would it do?
It rings four times.
He picks up.
Her lips are chapped.
I'm fine, Jay. Thanks.
Just calling to tell you
that I'm in the state.
What state?
Your state?
What do you mean?
I'm in Colorado.
What? What are you doing here?
Am I not welcome?
No, no. It's not that. Why didn't you tell me?
I wanted it to be a surprise.
I hate surprises.
Nobody hates surprises.
I do.
She's silent for a beat.
The birds are still ahead;
she races toward them but never gains.
Why didn't you tell me? he asks.
I just told you.
I think something's wrong with my phone.
I can hear an echo.
I have you on speaker.
Why?
My internal mic is broken.
Internal mic? What does that mean?
I don't know.
Where are you going?
Fort Collins. I have family out there, I guess.
Some cousins. Are you on the way?
Am I on the way to Fort Collins?
Yes.
No.
That's not what I want you to say.
What do you want me to say?
Just try again.
Eve, I don't think this is a good idea.
Try again.
What?
Try again.
I can hardly hear you. There's wind or something.
With her index finger she nudges the volume ****
to no effect. She puts her knee on the steering wheel.
She rolls up her window.
Say what I want you to say, she says.
I'm on the way, Jay says, if you take the long way.
I'll be there by six. What should we do?
You could start by apologizing.
So could you, Jay. What should we do?
Say that one more time--the phone.
What should we do when I get there?
We'll figure something out.
I hope, she says.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 11:51 AM UTC
find friends
someone sent you a friend request
look, some people you might know
nudges to connect
the more the merrier
spend more time looking at screens
immerse yourself in technology
who needs real life?
hey, you need a new phone
it's brand new
it's brand name
it's calling for you, my dear
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 1:23 AM UTC
dedicated to all of the women~poets here I love not-so-secretly
early to bed, early to rise,
stunned to sleep by a superhero trio,
sunset extraordinaire, food and drink,
but, nonetheless I am awakened
by a poem birthing,
water breaking,
now in full labor, burning borning,
inside a man's womb
full wattage, thus empowered,
the moonlight
nudges me awake at 300am
with something real
halfway between a slap and a tonguing kiss
of pure white ****** light
This night sun has an entourage
clouds in attendance,
attend-dance, exactly,
so many fawning, that the bright light
upon the water, normally a claro path,
tonight, but, just, a moon spot
smudged by the shapes of
cloud interlopers intervening
tween me and she...
(nature is female,
everybody knows that!)
yet, the night sun is so overwhelming bright
that everything is perfect outlined
edged sharp in relief,
the stand of six,
our bedroom guardians,
six oaks strong,
are quiet, at-attention still,
their leafy dress uniforms
perfectly pressed,
as I am too,
at full attention
now I understand why soldiers
award themselves oak leaf clusters
as medals of decoration, bravery
poor man's mind weak with admiration,
plots alternative W courses,
a. Walk on water as invited
b. Wake her with your tongue,
in order to put her back to sleep,
(with your tongue)
c. Write a poem with eye light
d. W-all of the above
unable to decide,
no, that's wrong,
incapable of decide,
I do the bravest act,
self-decorate myself with a
white badge of courage,
go back to sleep,
thinking I should not
drink so much wine on weekends,
but write of love and desire,
moons in July not June,
like the inner kid
wants to
and I look at the title this poem gave itself,
Full Moon Woman Life
wondering where the commas should be placed,
then realize it is all
one word
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 4:40 AM UTC
I've been having these...
Audacious ideas lately.
Ideas better left contracepted by reason
before taking root in my mind;
I've been playing hopscotch with What If
so long that I forgot he was just
and imaginary friend.
I've been thinking about you.
They're just thoughts but see,
These feelings I have for you
are so very contradictory
because the very reason I like you
is the reason you keep your distance.
You pray to a god I don't believe in
and according to my church,
you might be called a heathen
Yet I couldn't imagine anyone else in heaven
with more ease.
I've been having these...
Audacious ideas lately.
Ideas that took root and
for the life of me, won't scoot
for things like logic.
These here ideas are utterly tragic.
We share the same basic morals
but you stick to the script,
and I'm a little more improv;
with my Saturday Nights Live,
while you're at home praying
prayer number five.
Trust me when I say
I didn't mean to
think about you
dream about you
pray for you
constantly.
It wasn't until I heard you.
Every word was poetry,
and all I could ever do was stutter.
When I think of these audacious thoughts,
I begin to shutter.
Mainly because I'm walking
down the plank into heartbreak,
and those nudges at my back
pushing me forward are
the smiles you beam like
lighthouses in this dark world.
It's as if they start at the ground floor
of your soul, take an elevator
to the corners of your lips and
Spread.
I don't beleive in the prophet Mohammed
but am I a horrible Christian if I thank him
for inspiring someone to be so angelic?
Not only are you peaceful,
you're revolutionary.
You could change the world
with two hands behind your back
and still have prayer time in tact.
MSA President,
captain of the school team,
superlative for the biggest dream.
I like you for who you were, are,
and who you will become.
And it seems as though
every
one
of your actions
is rhythmic to my hearts drum.
I've been having these...
Audacious ideas lately,
Ideas better left unsaid,
Ideas better left dead.
Jul 19, 2011
Jul 19, 2011 at 7:46 AM UTC
the day in the park when you told me you loved me i noticed things that i never noticed before. your hair looked darker than usual and i ran my fingers through it almost absent-mindedly, a quick action that happened before i could process it. my fingertips came back wet.
saturday morning and clearly straight from the shower you smelt of deodorant, that lovely boy smell, of something fresh and clean but with the hint of sweat already from the walk over here which made me wonder why you ever even bothered with showers, when i liked the ***** sweatiness of your skin more than anything.
spring was sprung, flowers everywhere, the council gardeners pruning and weeding every afternoon when i wandered this way after school, but blissfully absent this morning, you and i lone lovers on a lark.
i noticed the dandelions were swaying, how picturesque, us in that strange place between friends and more, and the grass wet and dewy beneath our feet, rose bushes lining the path. but we strayed from that path, we did. you stole my hand and we started running, you raucous and wild, a lion inside a boy, and me, following and cautious but laughing.
there was this lovely weeping willow, the branches dangling gorgeous leaves, sweeping the ground, a curtain of green which you parted and brushed aside like the way you sometimes brush my hair from my face. under that weeping willow things happened.
“i can’t deny it,” you said. you said, as you touched my hair and my face and no other part of me, so intimate and courageous with my heart beating faster than any other saturday morning. “i can’t deny the fact that i love you,” and you were pushing me back as you stepped forward, little nudges in the hip and the shoulder and then maybe just hard enough to leave a bruise you pushed me against the trunk of the tree. as steady as i was weak.
i checked later, at home, safe in my bedroom with the curtains closed, in the almost dark i pulled off my shirt and checked, and yes you did, you did leave a bruise, but it was not as painful nor as potent as when you finally finally finally kissed me, your lips air as i was drowning, against that weeping willow with your hands finally finally finally on my waist and stomach and ******* and the fire you started in my heart as stupid as it sounds that has not and will not burn out, the pain of having to leave you at my doorstep and waiting until the next time you could relinquish my need, and now after we’re broken up the pain of not knowing if i’ll ever feel those lips again.
the bruises on my skin do not even begin to rival the internal bruising of that first kiss.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
The horse is chasing the jockey
Horse has a lotta moxy
Trots round like she is real foxy
Jockeys chase her down
his play gets old makes her frown
Turn of roles excites her soul
Riders line up but she cannot be found
Prize horse everyone thinks is trick
She runs when things get thick
Horses chase a finish line
Panting hard before the finish line
Wanting nothing more than to win the chase
Watch the smile grow on her face
As she chases that jockey down
Nudges with her nose and knocks him down
Wanting nothing more than to feel his hair
Wave and wander all over this mare~
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
The mortals twiddle their thumbs, they
entertain fickle thoughts. Eyes
are fixed to electronics as they wait
for the bus stop,
for a promotion,
for me to pass them by.
In their last season, I'm finally observed.
For the first Time, we mingle
with intent. We sit
watching grandchildren and
drinking coffee--slowing
down. A still moment; and then without fail
the mortal will pack his trunk
and journey to a place
that I cannot travel.
I am left, once again, to awaken the eyes
of the young. Investing
nudges and pushes, waging war against the clock--
All so that at life's end we might
if only for a brief moment,
be still, and sip joe.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 12:53 AM UTC
Cool are the streets before sunrise
I pedal my daily route through downtown Kalamazoo
Past the Art Institute and Civic
And out through Riverfront Park on the Valley Trail
Across the river on M96 I head east toward sunrise
The road is slightly dampened by the dew
And the trees on each side of the highway stand tall
Framing the sun as I make the first curve slightly east-north-east
In symmetry, the sun lies between the trees
Above the road, floating round, brilliant
Just inside the zone of a photographer's eye
The sun, the road, the trees, the mist – all ablaze in orange.
A dangerous time to ride so close to traffic
The lenses of my glasses scatter the light in condensation
I pedal hard to pass through this section
And ride into Galesburg stopping at the lights
Passing through town out Michigan Ave
I cross the Kalamazoo River but stop for a moment in stride
As the cold air nudges swirls of fog to dance on the surface
Lit from behind by the rising sun, golden, quiet, ghostly into the distance
Out onto my last few miles where the road is rough
It climbs out of the river valley up two hundred feet
Into winding country roads away from most traffic
And closer to the farms and woods
The air is now heavy with the dampness of the woods
There is only the breeze I bring with me
I crest a hill after a long climb but I do not coast on the slight reprieve
As there is new and old roadkill serviced by carrion birds in the mist
I am at my destination on another beautiful morning and I think
What wonders have I seen that my peers miss in their race on the highway
What smells of wild garlic, split oak, and musk of raccoon, skunk, and possum, and sweat
What satisfaction I have as I shower off the cold, and insects, and ride from my skin
August 20, 2013
Kalamazoo, MI
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 8:27 PM UTC
Alert!
Oh. It's only a reminder.
Automated, automatically sent
to us.
An email, a text.
They pop on devices,
trained that way.
Tomorrow's a birthday.
Always tomorrow an Alert!
Someone's born.
Yet, the helper has become a daemon.
Friendly assistance
become nudges of melancholy.
A Daemon for grieving?
How many Alerts
can the heart take?
Yearly jolts,
automated realization
that our family is fading.
Not tomorrow's children
born into midnight's Alert,
but the child father,
mother, sister, and brother we
remember in bleaching photos.
Chemically fading away,
decaying like data
on hard drives.
Our stormy lives
remembered with
a half-life of gentle reminders.
Remembered as
ghostly background processes
sending alerts of birthdays so long
ago there's no trace except
in shared memories.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC