"parkland" poems
I am alive by luck at this point.
I wonder if the gun that will eventually take me has been made.
Whose trigger will bury me.
How many bullets, like a flock of sparrows, will come carry my life to its final bed.
Today, I am alive but there is no law to thank.
If not me, then someone else.
Born into a game of chance we never asked for. Traded diplomas for obituaries. Traded graduation speeches for eulogies. Traded futures for an early grave. Forced to cash in their chips. We don’t want to play anymore.
And this too is eulogy. And this too is prayer. And this too can resurrect the coffin wood back to a tree. Can sing back alive whatever parts of you died with them. Whatever leapt in your throat at yet another headline.
Mourning until you, too, are a thing to mourn.
But we will no longer be martyrs.
We are the rude awakening to politicians who pawned out our safety, who bartered our lives for bribes.
You say “gun reform is not the answer” but all I can see is a bullet rattling like a pinball in an innocent student’s jaw.
You smell like gun smoke and
I can see the AR15 you're holding behind your back and
I guess it's easy to crack jokes about dodging bullets when you're the one firing them.
Give teachers books not bullets:
Kafka isn’t kevlar.
Bronte isn’t bulletproof.
And how sick is it that we must add school shootings to your list of proud american traditions.
Throwing opinions like punches.
How many more have to die before you decide your ego isn’t as important as you think it is?
And I, too, am buried alive
My soggy grave parting its greedy lips.
To you, my bones, when ground into gunpowder and mixed into water, taste like champagne.
My pulse, as thin as an obituary panting beneath sweaty palms, and sure
We are “just kids,”
But you are forgetting we are the next generation
And you autopsy your fists.
Call it reclamatory.
Lately, when asked “how are you?” I respond with a name no longer living.
And who knows if mine will be next
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 10:32 PM UTC
It was an AR15 that the kid used.
A gun that, in this free world, men can indulge and abuse.
A boy who saw him load his gun,
the gunman saw and simply said run,
A word that made the child flee for his life,
just before waves of bullets came upon the school,
The kid looked on and asked himself
why is life so cruel.
How many more people have to die,
before its ****** metal, not tears, that your children cry.
This free world, rife with argument by silly politicians
Men that make decisions, without experience of the repercussions.
This gunman was not a delinquent, he was a child.
Born of your failed systems, born of your sick traditions.
A boy who without second thought, took up his assault rifle
and headed into war with the children that learned ambition with him,
emotion and sudden movement that made them all feel just that little bit stifled.
This free world is one with a core of rights,
A doubled edged dagger,
a topic of discussion that makes the average fat man want to fight.
‘Over my cold dead body’ he said.
LET ME HAVE MY GUN
Because whilst others use it for fun,
the protection I have outweighs the fact
that when a 19 year old comes to school,
all the other kids have to run.
It’s ridiculous, heck its thoroughly imbecilic,
How children have to be careful of the education system,
not because of a
nationwide test
but a,
nationwide threat
of grown men,
looking to prove their ego,
men that can’t go against the party line
that fail to realise that life is more important
than the next donation
than the dollar sign.
You want protection? That’s completely fine.
Just don’t use the bodies of your children
as meat shields and pretend everything’s fine.
Don’t say you’ll do something as if something will change
because nothing will change unless it does.
This free world is not filled with love but truly its filled with hate,
A bloodlust so dense, even children’s blood cannot sate it’s thirst.
Until it's more than just a child hurt, but a country with a bullet wound
Caused by people, who love guns so much but blame it on the loons.
Your pain, I cannot prove.
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 6:46 AM UTC
There is a bullet in a box of crayons with really strange names like Parkland Perrywinkle, Sandy Hook Sanguine, and Great Mills Green in a place where children play Russian Roulette with their school supplies when they reach in to grab one and they’ve been learning about probability this week Forrest Gump will tell them you never know if you’re going to finish the lesson or turn into a statistic my sister likes to create mosaics by putting a hairdryer to crayons melting cascades of wax down a blank page sometimes she reaches in and it’s the one lead crayon at the top of the page and it’s only one color that seeps down into the crevices of the cafeteria’s tile floor that proceeds to wash away the Proud Honor Roll Parent stickers washes away the Proud Honor Roll Parent stickers I see another child reach into the box and I write another word problem I write another word problem: “Zoey reaches into a box of crayons. What is the likelihood she will not get to hang her drawing up on her kitchen refrigerator? What is the likelihood her funeral photo will hang there instead?” Draw students’ attention to the key word “likelihood.” Tell students This word shows that the question is asking whether or not you will live to tell your parents how your day at school was. and I wonder when school desks will take the shape of caskets in a place where both screams of laughter and screams of terror
are permitted
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 1:02 PM UTC
If you survive,
Go tell the world.
Not that you survived,
but of what happened.
Bring awareness to those,
Who were left in the darkness.
Hiroshima and Nagasaki,
9-11,
Parkland shooting,
Only naming a few.
For those whose voices are forever quieted,
Speak with the weight of their legacy on your shoulders.
But don't carry the load alone,
There are others who feel the same,
With tear-stained faces, their burden is heavier than yours,
So shoulder the pain together,
And survive.
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 1:40 PM UTC
No thoughts were thrown around,
let alone conscious decisions bound
in clear evidence and concrete fence-post facts.
She was awake before the frost settled,
and my how her eyes showed the time:
Lengthy red lines pretending to be hands that chimed.
The parkland grasses awaited the
speckled dappled, sunlight shade,
to warm its back in the morning masquerade.
-
Only her body was thrown around,
alone across a car bonnet
in a clear honest, beautiful smudge of fashion and blood.
She would never awake the same again,
and how the nurses soothed her pain
with modern miracle, clear liquid rain, medicine.
The parkland grasses still await the
speckled dappled, sunlight shade,
to warm its back in the morning death march masquerade.
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC
the dark ice cream man
floats up and down the empty streets
his truck weakly cranking out a warped sounding song
that leaves a trail of dogs objecting
the truck has the word pestilence painted on it
instead of ice cream
his dark form hunched over the steering wheel
his cheshire grin has aspects of his delirium
imprinted on its clean toothy shine
he only comes out at three am
and glides the cool pavement in search
of Delilah's phone number
she promised him that she would be his one true
and he meant to hold her to it
he would do anything to have her all to himself
Delilah walks barefoot along the train track
with one ear nailed acutely to the train whistle approaching
the other ear in her pocket
where she hums a **** version of
the battle hymn of the republic
all good girls love horses and shotgun weddings
she wants her shotgun wedding on the saddle
with the ice cream mans brother
who she thinks is just too nifty to be anything but heavenly
she always pictured him with angel wings
carrying a sword and riding a pale horse named death
there are echoes in the concrete parkland
the neatly trimmed grass glistens wetly in the darkness
a dew touched tree stands on a narrow hill
its leaves thrashed slowly by a whisper of wind
the sound of running feet
laughter
its an illusion
she is an illusion
i make matchstick men
watch them march in precision lines
i am a matchstick man
watch me scribble in precision lines
the ice cream man now sleeping
away the humid hot afternoon
stashed away in the back of his pestilence truck
while Delilah learns how to knit and make candles
that ice cream mans brother sells at flea markets
we all settle for what we think we want
and in the end we all get what we deserve
Delilah marries the brother and they live happily
while ice cream man spends his mid-life crisis as a
politician who leads a double life
making ice cream sandwichs out of his basement
and i am discovered 'neith the truck making
matchstick men out of twigs
from the tree of life
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
In that telepathy where the tincture of you flows across into me
and two minds are as one
and the linguistics could be any language they please
where we understand everything
amid the teasing of the tone
and where the home I have made
is the bed upon which we laid
there is a playing of games across the Ocean whose name I no longer recall.
but no matter of that, in my mind,in my flat you are here
with me.
telepathically speaking until still seeking connect
I elect to a meeting
a fleeting of faces
a mouthful of places come up for a rendezvous.
Do you know where the flowers grow tall by the hot dog seller next to the bandstand in the parkland up at Hampstead hill?
You do?
good
see you at three twenty
and I have got plenty to say.
Later in the day after hot dogs and soda I told her let's move on,the evening has brought on a chill
will you come home with me?
I waited to see what her reply might be,
'that could be good'
and I knew that it would
so we
tootled off scootily
and she tootled quite beautifully
and on this bed that we laid we made
another nightshade.
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 6:36 AM UTC
A day of love, a day of hearts:
Valentine's Day, twenty eighteen.
The day started out like any other
But ended in a horrific scene.
Students in Parkland, Florida,
Shared their valentines today.
A former student entered the school
To celebrate in a different way.
An AR-15 assault-style rifle
Was that student's valentine.
Killing and hurting students and teachers
Was his version of "Please be mine."
All it takes is a single person
To drag a special day through the mud.
Roses and hearts with Cupid's arrow
Lie on the ground, splattered with blood.
Are we failing our people here?
When shootings occur, we ask for prayers
Instead of taking appropriate measures.
What a sad state of affairs!
Most of us enjoy our day;
Our lives return to normal tomorrow.
Valentine's Day for people in Parkland
Forever will be suffused with sorrow.
-by Bob B (2-14-18)
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 9:46 AM UTC
Our Lady visits places where no man has trod asunder
Places where the hand of time has kept them from the sun,
Places where the roiling earth hath ground to rend like thunder
Where history, as we know it now, had barely, then, begun.
With elegance she burrows forth, with elegance a seeking
Tended by her retinue of young, admirers’ lithe,
With elegance she sinuously writhes within containment,
To elegantly strive to shape her contour, uncontrived.
So femininely fabulous, admired by all and sundry
Her deadlines met assiduously, taken in her stride.
Secretly she smiles the smile of one who dwells thereunder
Who secretly entrances with her quiet performing pride.
Fare welled on her journey by adoring crowd and bunting,
Fare welled midst a sea of flags by rotund Prince and child
To coyly disappear from sight with retinue of admirers
To reappear with fanfare in a year, to drive men wild.
Sinuously spinning in her secret world beneath us,
Spinning and beguiling in uniquely female way,
Alice holds our promise in sweet dreams and aspirations
Our Subterranean Goddess…Our Lady of the Day.
Marshalg
Plant Co-ordinator
The Wellconnected Consortium
AUCKLAND.
27 January 2014
Alice is our giant tunnel boring machine. She is currently 40 m beneath parkland and housing in Owairaka, Auckland. In 12 months she will emerge at Waterview to be spun around to burrow the return tunnel back to the point of origin. These tunnels will form the completing stages of the modern motorway system in Auckland. The system, which will be completed in 2017, will revolutionise the existing transport network and benefit the people of Auckland and New Zealand for decades to come.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
Since Parkland Florida many are taking a stand
against senseless violence, and such
Yet I still wonder,
When are parents going to start being parents,
And securing their guns
and weapons?
When are parents going to start taking
responsibility for their actions?
When are parents going to begin
making things right,
And teach their children to use their brains,
and solve their differences
with communication,
and if all else fails
never bring a gun to a fist fight?
When are parents going to start being parents?
Cause last time I checked being a parent was more
than just kissing a child goodnight
Being a parent meant being responsible
and taking responsibility
for all the wrongs a parent needs to make right
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 3:58 PM UTC
I remember the lights going off in the brains of young poets.
Deep in the dank streets of New York or Columbia college.
When the blues and twos would come and round up
The beatniks snapping to the howl of a homosexual mind.
When the generational attitudes of those too old to know,
Control the ****** acts of “violence”, or
The deepening scars of our philosophies.
When the urbanization of historical prowess leads to
Gentrified gypsies of the diamond deserts and endless skyways
When the great in the country isn’t good enough
For the red hats and spray tanned millionaires.
When the stocks of corporate dragons burn down
The attempts of upstart knights and online kingdoms.
When the politicians of old become the scapegoats
For the ironically gerontocratic few.
When the female few who dared couldn’t find their lost primaries
Or control the lifeblood leaking out of the Strait of Hormuz.
When the powerful and powerless fought in-between
The dejected and all too often ignored.
When the powered halogen lights flooded prison yards of
Wrongly convicted and murderously in need of help.
When the San Francisco clubs lit up with muzzle flash
And the dancers lay weeping in their blood.
When the schools became places to duck and cover
Or learn to trip a friend when running from a gun.
When parkland high became a manufacturing ground
For casings, tears, and candlelight vigils.
When the American dream came combo packaged
And supersized with obesity and unemployment.
When the education of the youth became about
The profit margin in a spreadsheet full of debt.
When the sun sets in the smoke filled horizons
And sleepless rest settles on the western front.
Dec 4, 2020
Dec 4, 2020 at 1:16 AM UTC
the 19th SCHOOL shooting in the USA in 48 days
the gun lobby is lying low
the president
surprise
avoids a straight comment
17 school children dead
because in the land of the free
any psychopath can buy
a semiautomatic without problems
and vent his frustrations and fears
in a shooting spree
home schooling is on the rise
for better or worse
what do you call a president
who is unwilling
or unable
to protect
the health and security
of his people?
LOSER!!!
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 3:10 PM UTC
We are just back from an autumnal walk.
Gold, red, and yellow lead green by a nose
And the sharper neighbourhood edges are softened
With leaf piles that fill the dips and voids.
We are just in from a loop around the 'hood.
The unseasonable warmth has even coerced
Teenagers onto patches of parkland to play ball
While their digital assault rifles go unused.
We have returned from exposure to the environs.
A long summer of incremental house adjustments
Pauses for the interim, so neighbours can await
The soon-to-be revised ostentation index.
We are inside again at the end of an autumn day.
Dying rays of sunlight filter through windows and half-bare trees.
Free warmth leaves us to rely upon the furnace
And savour anonymity among the bricks, stucco and vinyl.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 5:10 PM UTC
There’d been a factory here once,
Squat red brick structure
Suffused with too much noise and too little ventilation,
Built for the purpose of making typewriters,
Unwieldy, cacophonous clanking anachronisms
Whose time, like the town it occupied,
Had long since come and gone,
The only businesses on the sad little main drag
Being those shabby, tattered concerns
Which flower, improbable and cactus-like
At the intersection of the vagaries of memory
And the ascent of decay.
Nothing sits here now,
Simply an empty lot returning to Nature,
Although half-hearted attempts
To accelerate that process have not taken root,
As the soil, fouled by metal shavings, solvents,
And only God knows what else,
Has proved less than amenable
To anything save weedy shoots and scrubby boxwoods,
So it sits empty, impossible to build upon
(There is liability in every spike of crabgrass,
A potential lawsuit in every patch of clover)
And wholly impractical as parkland.
The firm which owned the site erected a fence
To keep whatever was in there in and everyone else out
(In their final addition of injury to insult,
The check they gave to the fencing company in payment
Bounced higher than a child’s rubber ball)
But a generation of winters and general inattention
Have left the chain-links a patchwork affair,
And though the “POSTED” signs remain
(Their original angry and officious red
Having faded to a benign maroon),
Enforcement of their edicts is spotty at best,
So we sit, unbothered and alone,
On an odd little mound at the back of the lot
As the dusk begins to take hold,
I, in an act of mad optimism, the peculiar positing
That there are good things yet to come,
Grab your hand, intertwining the fingers with mine.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 10:56 AM UTC
rest of title...Parkland, Fla.,February 14, 2018
One more senseless mass homicide
twas the sole arbitrary aim
as a former student nonchalantly
sauntered empty hallways
seconds preceding blame
brazenly intent to maximize total killed
matter of factly telling police
(his incomprehensible)
(ill) logic he did explain
when cornered, he willingly,
unflinchingly, reticently admitted guilt
Nikolas Cruz rocketed
to instantaneous infamous fame
pulling a fire alarm
("FAKE") emergency,
then going leisurely ambling
along his killing spree
total of seventeen slain (comprising 3 faculty
and 14 students)
mercilessly gunned down
as if they were wild game
when handcuffed, an innocuous
19 year old did readily admit
emptying one firearm after another
at a fairly rapid clip
then at some predestined
or spurious moment didst dip
and dive out amidst
the chaotic madding crowd
before reality flopped then did flip
as lower teeth he nervously bit upper lip
made feeble getaway
at a nearby eatery casually flirted
with cashier and made no move to flit
upon his seizure as cornered prey
subsequently large tract
massively cordoned off
strong arm of the law
slightly halting in speech
detailed his gambit
deliberately staking
a stance to maximize hit
and once again afflicted parents lit
up with rancor and rage pit
toughly battling sorrow
which will not quit
til death doth bring peaceful rest
sans, those grieving family visit.
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 7:18 PM UTC
why i will march
on march 24
for the victims of
february 14
i will march
because i have been a student
i still am a student
i will march
because i have seen
people with guns
and what they can do
i will march
because my best friend
lives 18 minutes away
from parkland, florida
and my cousin
lives 30 minutes away
from great mills high school
in lexington, maryland
i will march
because
people prefer to protect
their weapons of mass destruction
over their own children
i will march
because i am sick
of thoughts and prayers
i am sick
of calls for action
without any move
to do anything
i will march
because many of our top politicians
still generously take contributions
from the NRA
i will march
because my president
would rather
protect the 2nd amendment
than let me live till graduation
i will march
because
any kid
out of the hundreds that have died
could have been me
it still could be me
and i am not just going to let that happen
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 12:10 PM UTC
1.
I started in the shadow of one of God’s many houses,
fat plums on common ground offered themselves,
taut, bruise-purple skin still pristine
for maybe two, three more weeks
Walking on, a burst fig signaled
something
fresh green torn
scandalously showing fleshy insides
that should be kept private
for lovers, gourmands, gluttons
All the while, intermittently,
the straight line train drones by,
keeping Presbyterian hold
on passing passengers
who through unopened windows
cannot smell, hear or taste the divine
All the while the crickets sang of being
2.
All the while the crickets scored my steps
until ahead, nettle and dog rose conversations
conspired to thwart this man’s,
any man’s,
attempts to walk straight and true
A detour took me from the soft lost chaos of grasses
to tight lawns, hard front doors,
dark-ish satanic mills making wheat biscuits
and the ever sad chorus of a million tyres
Nearing home, a young rabbit’s boldness held
until too close, melted away
in the managed parkland
dragonfly truths called, m’ ducks
dragonfly truths called
Aug 4, 2021
Aug 4, 2021 at 7:32 AM UTC
Parkland, Fla. February 14, 2018
One more senseless mass homicide
twas the sole arbitrary aim
as a former student nonchalantly
sauntered empty hallways
seconds preceding blame
brazenly intent to maximize total killed
matter of factly telling police
(his incomprehensible)
(ill) logic he did explain
when cornered, he willingly,
unflinchingly, reticently admitted guilt
Nikolas Cruz rocketed
to instantaneous infamous fame
pulling a fire alarm
("FAKE") emergency,
then going leisurely ambling
along his killing spree
total of seventeen slain (comprising 3 faculty
and 14 students)
mercilessly gunned down
as if they were wild game
when handcuffed, an innocuous
19 year old did readily admit
emptying one firearm after another
at a fairly rapid clip
then at some predestined
or spurious moment didst dip
and dive out amidst
the chaotic madding crowd
before reality flopped then did flip
as lower teeth nervously bit upper lip
made feeble getaway
at a nearby eatery casually flirted
with cashier and made no move to flit
upon his seizure as cornered prey
subsequently large tract
massively cordoned off
strong arm of the law
slightly halting in speech
detailed his gambit
deliberately staking
a stance to maximize hit
and once again afflicted parents lit
up with rancor and rage pit
toughly battling sorrow
which will not quit
til death doth
those grieving family visit.
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 6:11 PM UTC
it was 63 when a man said i have a dream
there for that day peoplo walked away with in there head somthin is going to change
we all said were going to get the man on the moon and loved a man that got them there
a man woke time for work in his wallet he he had a 20 that he would never spend
the pain to get dressed was unreal that no one else could feel
he went to the table to eat there was his son and daughter
little jon jon was what he called his son daddy can i go with no son bet you can come to the airport to wave us goodbye so he ran to his room to get dressed so there they were so father and mother waiting for it to land as they all held hands
they jumped it to choper as they were called
they flew to andrews promising to son and sis that they would be back
they landed in pink and blue the cheered for the wife as the husband had strife
many hands just to many to count all reached for camolot
they jumped in the car they dint have far he said a speech and once again hand were at reach
on the path many peoplo did line to see the man who said i know i can
the car did slow for the peoplo did flow
you cant say they dont love you here a women did show
bam bam bam was the sound that was herd as peoplo fell to the dirt
they took off very fast for the man may not last
they arived at a place called parkland and they did no waist to get the man in blue and the women in pink and the dreded red that was added to pink and blue
peoplo wept as they saw the women and man oh oh oh so much red
the man was dead when a hour did pass oh why could he not last
the women in pink and again so much red it was a flash as the women put her children to bed as the man they loved was dead for camolot you will never see again
for the man who had a dream in 63 would never see the relalty but the hill he spoke of the man in blue would see and see and see for all the corwards did flee
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:42 AM UTC
River sparkles under scowling sky
Flowing curves
Serpentine sweepings
Amidst steel and concrete.
I lived in a ghetto box here.
Nothing is permanent.
Let’s go
in a boat
through secret underground streams
to that place
deep beneath parkland roots
of elm, ash and hazel
where wise old rocks
with lime green beards
sit still in wisdom.
Do they envy us movement?
Moss is slippy underfoot.
Nothing is permanent.
Let’s alchemise emotions of liquid
Peel off layers
Abandon those old world clothes in a pile
Slip
naked
into pure warm water
Soak
in a healing cave
of glowing amethyst
Until
Through a crack in the crystal
We enter a shaft of light
Magnificent and frightening
Then emerge
into pastel skies
Return to earth
Boisterous
Forever transformed by the fusion
Welcomed back
By a squelching piano
Made of our ancestors’ mud
To play
To sing
To be.
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 4:26 PM UTC
Preludium: as gaps fulfill
their color...
may we be privy
to dream.
From a cornered
eye, freed from
its perfect cut...
true to life, yet not.
A sharp right into
blue.
Its sky slid the
silent take of a red
tail hawk...caught
to the gravity of a limp bird, shrunk by shock.
I sat by, the bird's feathers fell
in countered curls and spins.
Amidst parkland, near a
pitcher's mound...snow
traced its fall the night prior.
The wind blew, and I
swear...snowflakes coupled
with those falling feathers.
What's out of sight is always
gentle--what sees is carried
away.
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 1:41 AM UTC
mass slaughter
of innocent kids aye abhor,
an undeniable chance, some and/or all
those slain Valentine' Day 2018,
would be alive borne out
in living color before
killing spree resulted in unwonted deaths,
when deputy Scot Peterson
abdicated his chief chore
and did not intervene (perhaps...
playing positive pivotal role)that fateful day,
but walked up to a closed door
then rode a golf cart February fourteenth
(appearing dumbfounded as Eeyore)
when seventeen people killed
(lying dead on the floor)
inside the Parkland, Fla. school
seeds bracketed speculation galore,
sans officer at Marjory
Stoneman Douglas High School did ignore
Shooting not "FAKE" baffles
and begs question, why bemused
mentioned deputy did not
strong arm gunman Nikolas Cruz,
Who unloaded his AR-15
inside the school settling revengeful dues
as said killer explained,
which no skew logic can excuse
as the latter indiscriminately
brandished barrel that fired
bullets at random youths
(unwitting targets) lighting a fuse
of explosive rage, and
(leaving no iota of doubt) lose
zing no chance against death penalty,
as surveillance video released into news
media Thursday (July 15th),
truth one cannot refuse
to see, where young baby faced assassin
blithely pumped bullets
dooming lives, whose shoes
unable to outrun as classmates got felled by ones and twos.
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 4:29 PM UTC
Martha
Your kin still fly
uncaged and called
young November sky
scored countless
For three high days they came
great in massing
climbing, radiant
fire-milk lariats
gaps in blaming
rain pursued.
When leaf-cull doors
low fruit to fall
implores the motley
parkland bronze
Your kin will fly
uncaged and called
Your legacy
lives on.
Nov 24, 2023
Nov 24, 2023 at 11:52 PM UTC