"rancher" poems
8th grade.
That was the year everything
went to hell.
That was the year I went on a diet.
I decided to shed
my last shred
of dignity,
along with 60+ pounds
in order to impress the boy with the dark, curly hair.
That was the year I lied to my parents.
"Did you eat dinner?" they asked.
"Yes," I replied,
and they believed me.
They couldn't tell
that something wasn't quite right
with their perfect little girl,
who was starving for the perfect body,
and for attention from the boy with the dark, curly hair.
That was the year teachers began to ask questions.
Mr. May, with the spiky hair and burly arms,
glanced suspiciously at my pale skin,
eerily translucent and decorated with bruises.
Mrs. Fitz, who had recently been on a diet herself,
always made sure that I had a lunch,
although she never made sure I ate it.
Mrs. ***** a small woman with a big personality,
used to make comments about eating disorders
just to get a rise out of me,
and when that didn't work,
she went a step farther.
Mr. Daley, the 7th and 8th grade guidance counselor,
consumed every lie I fed him,
and when I grabbed a Jolly Rancher off his desk
on my way back to class,
he smiled with triumph,
as if he had cured me,
but he didn't see me throw it away
as soon as I got home.
Those extra 15 calories
would have ruined my chances with the boy with the dark, curly hair.
That was the year I couldn't leave the house without a sweater
because, even on the warmest day, I couldn't stop shivering.
That was the year all of my hair fell out.
That was the year I lost most of my friends.
That was the year everything went to hell
because of a boy with dark, curly hair.
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC
Scrapers will no longer scrape.
Fighters soon to lose the short fight.
Pilots are forced to surrender control.
Snakes on a plane will bank into a roll,
a scene that really no longer is scenic.
Leaders still read while getting a scare.
Huge landmarks that I swear were once there,
bridges in shortage are counting the tolls.
Dust that eventually will never be settled,
liquid support that used to be metal,
big bad crude that never was good—
things impossible suddenly could.
Answers quickly try to be drummed.
Future conflicts guaranteed to be won,
particles blocking our UV death sun,
days become decades and turkey is done.
Brave individuals are no longer bold.
Families’ histories are quite often told,
a baby’s bottle empty with no one to hold.
Government figures tilted but somehow sold
parades in protest with a circus in town.
A tiger got out, but why can’t he growl?
Seems that the cat’s got somebody’s tongue.
Another channel covers son after son,
numbers mounting, but not the right ones.
Cabbies still nose their thumb after thumb,
training centers destroyed one after one.
We should’ve just played “Drop the **** bomb!”
Fear is good, and of course good is feared;
it’s the only thing that drives us way over here.
Just like the Bible, it’s mostly made up.
The supersonic jet has just hit a rut.
The dirtiest of bombs versus our Smith and Wesson.
“Come on gang, why would you even question?”
Like death and taxes—there’s none that’s more sure,
but then there’s the free upcoming history lesson.
“Ain’t gonna do it” acting just like his pop.
This rancher really means it when tossing the slop.
“Still can’t find him—he’s with boys in Brazil.”
What’ve they done lately to lighten the till?
It’s time for the Allies to storm up this hill.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC
Purp-Purple Purp-Purple in my blood, cut it, cut it, cut it
Let it bleed, blee-bleed
Sipping on the lea-le-lean
Smoking that dank
My blood stream-stre-stream
When the codeine hits
It hits real hard
When the codeine hits
It hits real hard, hard-hard
Drop a rancher in, let it-let it splash
Splas-splash
Turn up the system, ***** let the snare drum
Crash cra-crash
Rolling through the hood, chevy dropped low
(Lo-low yeah)
My Chevy real lo-lo-low
I said my leather and wood Chevy dropped low
Johnny's in the basement mixing up the medicine
Mixing up the-mixing up the medicine-med-medicine
**** C's in the backroom letting all the ratchets in
Ratchet-ratchet-ratch-
Letting all the ratchets in
Dumping out cigar trash-tra-trash
Fill it back with the hash-ha-hash
Sip that lean slow
Bringing the good old nineties back
Ba-back
Said bring the good old nineties back
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
Take me as I am, please
No. Please is too understanding
Take me as I am!
Wait. Maybe that's too demanding?
I don't think we understand each other
Maybe we're over analyzing
It's just that when I look into your eyes I stop
They're hypnotizing
Stop. No. Rewind please!
But I can't, the words are out
Could you give me a backspace button for conversation
That would relieve some doubt
I want you
Argh! Too lustful!
I need you!
ACK! Too needy!
Let's just say the world's a candy jar
And for your jolly rancher I'm greedy?
No? Not subtle? Too subtle? Argh!
Why is it so complicated to speak to you!?!
I'm like a 3 year old whose trying to make a picture out of glitter and glue
And the supplies just keep sticking!
Do you understand what I mean?
I see the perplexed look on your face and...
**** it, woman, you're pretty
Ack! Rewind rewind rewind!
Stupid stupid stupid!
The only way to catch an arrow is to say you DON'T want Cupid
So I don't want you....yes I do.
No I don't!
But I do!
No I don't!
Yes I do!
NO! I! DON'T!
Look at her!!!
....okay, I do.
But you wouldn't give me a second thought if I told that to you
I mean let's face it, you're so out of my league that we're not even in the same sport
I'm playing with the tiny tikes and you're in the pro team's court
But I would be a fool if this wall was all I feel on my fingers
And as perverted as that sounds I let the joke just linger
Because you're beautiful and I'm me
And who am I to attain a girl like you
The boy whose glasses fall down his nose and is missing one or two screws
I just want a dance... and a kiss.... okay, just a dance
No, what I want from you is the guarantee of a second, maybe third glance
To see you in the hallways tomorrow and know I make you smile
To know that you affirm we danced and liked it all the while
I want to be more than wallflower material and I want the prime
So with shaky legs, a corny disco ball, and a bad song, I stand and I greet you
And ask could this dance be mine....?
Your move. Gulp.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 9:58 PM UTC
A lost and thirsty wanderer
sought oasis on a parched and dusty plain
where spectral mesas
merged with pastel stratus clouds -
quivering in the summer sun.
A slender blue ellipse emerged
along the horizon's edge,
taunting the traveler’s arid throat.
Recalling child-day afternoons.
splashing in the pond behind the barn,
his legs urged toward aquatic deliverance.
But knowledge seized his boots.
Wary of loving a delusion,
he chose instead to seek a road or farm
or chance upon a horse-backed rancher
tracking down an errant calf.
Still he looked back to his phantom pond –
never to know if an oasis flowed
less than an hour’s walk away.
December, 2018
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 9:41 AM UTC
Hunting dove down on the backroad
way on back only the rancher knows
he doesn’t care so we wait for flight
12 gauges ready to start our plight
Ring necks, white wings, and mourning’s are game
chichi birds make us swing all the same
listening for the whistle and the beat of the wing
one of us today, will win the brass ring
Limiting out is what we’re hoping for
but if not, you couldn’t hope for more
outside with friends and family alike
kids getting bored, gone on a hike
Men at the truck with cold Coors Light
relaxing outdoors, no one’s uptight
suns getting low, they are about to fly
here they come, hear the wings sigh
Draw a bead and a lead and fire away
one bird down, hope there’s more we pray
birds on the tailgate at the end of fight
get em’ all clean before the black of the night.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 2:17 PM UTC
How does the rancher learn to dance
The annual rhythms of the land?
When do we bring the cows, bawling,
From open summer to sheltered winter pastures?
When is it time to bring the stubborn bulls
To the empty, urgent cows,
Or to remove them from contented cows,
Grown placid in the heaviness of calves?
How do we know the time
To round up the sweltering herds,
Bringing the bellering calves to brand?
Or when do we cull the frightened heifers,
Lucky in their selection, but uncertain?
When should we pare the weanlings,
And when call we the buyers?
And, when is the time for hiking forty miles
Of rusting fence,
Replacing posts,
Mending broken wire
Before the changing of pastures?
And when is the time to come to ease,
To sense the satisfaction
In seeing grazing cattle,
Tails swishing away the black flies of June,
Moving through gray-green prairie grass
On their way to cool creek water?
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 8:29 AM UTC
Rubber faces. Foreheads sweat, stream clown makeup when cheeks meet. Sweet blood: corn syrup, water, starch. Lick then smell. Vampires pick jolly rancher debris from teeth. Blue fangs. A skeleton in the closet undresses a nun. Open door open window sit three cats. Watch the sun set. Crows murdered around oak trees. Darkness. Lights, music, karaoke, Elvis sings Franki Valli. Richard Nixon gropes a slutty nurse. Left hand, right breast. Alcohol permeates air. Skin, sweat. Touch. Marilyn Monroe hoards candy corn souped with beer broth in her stomach. Passes out. Steve Irwin wears a sting ray through his chest, ***** tail through his shirt, surrounded in blood. First place in the costume contest. Alter egos. Fred Flintstone feels snubbed. So does a saran wrapped girl. Nipples hidden with black fabric circles. Black balloons. Orange ones. Red balloons. Popped. Silent girl in white stands in the corner. Caresses a small bottle of cyanide in her fingers. Thumb, middle, pointer, pointed at Marilyn. She knows she will not wake up. They’ll call it suicide. Elvis finishes his song in a falsetto,
Oh, what a night.
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 10:46 AM UTC
It's ok.
Have a massive public melt down.
Drink it away,
you'll forget
Are your teeth perfect and white?
Clothes ironed?
Hair done up?
If you've drank too much
or you're beat to ****
have a friggin
Jolly Rancher.
It'll be ok....
Just as long as you smell
like a jolly rancher
Throw glasses at the elderly cook
Bring home men way too young
who know nothing except
Nothing
But make **** sure
You eat that
Jolly Rancher
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 1:39 AM UTC
doll face
lavender thighs
rose gold heartbeat
alternate endings tracing cheekbones
like broken glass
your sawdust jawline
summertime soiree
knee-buckling faith
a mouthful of metaphors
forevers
daisy chained couplets
some purple skylines
feathers
cotton
hushed loving between
celestial bodies
grapefruit and coconut sugar
closing time
deities not quite worshiped
revered
hightop/high heel
purple jolly rancher
dress and tie
fingertips
hips swaying from side to side
windchimes
music
moments
love or truth
now or never
healing
breathless
full of life
merry-go-round mindset
happy dizzy
revolve around the sun
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 12:51 PM UTC
There was a man who bought a horse
From a rancher known as Joe,
But Joe explained things to the man
Before he let him go.
This horse is strange, the rancher said,
You command him not like others;
Say "Oh my God" to make him go,
To stop, say "Smothers Brothers."
He commanded sternly, "Oh my God!"
Once mounted on the steed;
At once the stallion started off
With a frantic burst of speed.
Toward a canyon cliff he ran,
Across the desert sands;
The man, in wild excitement,
Forgot the two commands.
In fear he cried out random words
As fast they neared the drop,
Yet still he could not find the phrase
To make the stallion stop.
He then remembered "Smothers Brothers,"
And yelled with all his breath;
At once the beast slid to a halt
An inch away from death.
Afraid to move, he gazed upon
The canyon deep and broad
He wiped his brow, and in relief,
He whispered, "Oh my God!"
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 3:20 PM UTC
"how bout a goodnight kiss?"
maybe if i had another sip of the liquid jolly rancher
or maybe if it had
been a
dream.
your callused hands were never mine to hold.
please, don't stare at me,
i need a place for this bucket of salt,
and you need a doctor for your wounds.
(i can't lick them up anymore)
"just a peck on the cheek, okay?"
still too much.
(i saw your heart throbbing in the flesh)
the sticky red, under my fingernails
persistent,
like you.
i was never yours.
i was never
yours.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 10:22 PM UTC
Sharp, empty sky is a dread blue eye
looking at everything but you.
You feel like the only thing that exists, but really,
your'e the only thing here that doesn't.
The wind would rather talk to itself
than speak your breathless name.
You set out to build a fence
to prove to the dead sky that you exist
and oh, the building felt so good
that only once you'd finished the work
did you realize where you stood.
It is quiet on your side, a soundless expanse;
Are you proud, you languageless savage?
Does your silence feel like vindication?
Or does your heart start to tremble,
do your lungs start to burn,
when you look across the fenced and quartered plains
and see you've strung barbed wire across the only passage home?
There it broods familiar on the horizon, and must you stand removed
until it collapses, or will you ****** your pride to save it?
What's worse, being fenced in, or fenced out?
Terrified of both, terrified of it all, of the certainty and the uncertain,
of the loneliness and the companionship,
you set fire to the prairie, flee to the high mountains,
and hope that the sky sees you there.
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 11:46 PM UTC
In this farmhand garden
I spray out words
To be avocados.
Tomatoes. Anything green
Red or yellow. A gaming
Meadow with me as its
Lyrical rancher. I pick out the bad
Roots to be made into weird clothing
And picnic lanterns.
Because you can't have a good picnic
Without the freshness of the growers
Garden..
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 9:45 AM UTC
There’s never been a man like Grandpa Hayes
‘Cause all the tales about him must be true:
Broke sixteen horses less’n seven days
And stole the Rancher’s girl in only two.
He lived for eighty years ‘cause he was skilled,
An expert shot who never came out worse.
His .32 was from a man he killed
The only one who’d ever shot him first.
A family curse what made him ride so fast
‘Cause lightnin struck his daddy graveyard dead
They say it turned his uncle into ash
And then it got his cousin in the head.
So Grandpa spent his life outrunnin clouds
Just lookin for a truth he never found.
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 3:49 PM UTC
"Gurl you know you're beautiful,
a space kitten
relationships messed up but ya face isn't,
kisses used to taste like jolly rancher kisses
but now they taste different"
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 3:09 AM UTC
He walks on the streets, a lonesome figure,
looks around for that familiar face.
He had her close before, an arm's length touch,
her jolly-rancher lipgloss he could taste.
He couldn't get her attention, he looked elsewhere instead.
He'd lost track of the man he was with her, he made do with fake.
He asked to be out, to only wish she'd come forward.
She said otherwise, that going on would make things awkward.
He never wanted out, but this was his only way to be with her.
He knew it was only a matter of time,that it'll happen the way he'd fear.
She used to fight it out,saying they'll work this out,
but lately she'd told him otherwise.
She'd come to realise that this would suffice.
He knew things had change, it was the only thing that's constant.
He only needed the courage to face what he'd reluctant.
So he walks the streets, a lonesome figure,
still holding on to that familiar phase.
He only needs to know if it's worth feeling anymore,
or should he stop running this race.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 12:45 PM UTC
As I have stated before, my father, for twenty years was a game warden for what is now known as The Texas Wildlife Commission. He taught my brother and me a lot about hunting, fishing, and tracking, although I never developed a real liking for fish.
I was fourteen years old the first time he took me on a deer hunt near the south end of Texas' Yellowhouse Canyon, not too far outside of Lubbock, Texas. A rancher friend of dad's gave permission to hunt on his two hundred plus acres.
After about two hours of hiking we finally saw one, about one hundred and fifty yards from us.
Oh, how majestic he was, about an eight-point buck. Dad handed me the 30.06 rifle. Sitting on the ground, with my elbows braced against my knees, dad said, "take the shot when you're ready, but if you wait too long, he will run!"
After it was over, and packing the rifle in its case and closing the trunk lid of the car, dad put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Son, you did well!" I never pulled the trigger. I yelled at that beautiful animal, and he took off as if he were shot out of a cannon. You see, he posed no threat to me. Looking at him through the sight I realized that all he was wanting to do was survive.
I didn't want, or need, a hat rack.
In memory of "Cecil the Lion."
copyright: richard riddle-July 30, 2015
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
Strawberry Kiwi makes makes me queasy
I know it's a bit crazy, and a bit cheesy
But this place has me so confused, so lost
Sometimes I feel like I'm owning it like a boss
Drinking Green Tea and ******* on a Jolly Rancher
Knowing that the taste is pretty far out there
Been kicked off a horse, been kicked in the nuts
I've seen the sun go down, seen it come up
It's safe to say, I've been running on a lot of luck
My mind is clear, and I'm ready to ride this buck
Don't stop me now, don't get in my way, here I go
I've been working for this, I need to do this, let's roll
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 9:43 PM UTC
Don’t tell your mother when she visits
home that I sleep beneath frayed house
shoes, under floorboards, noticing
creaks. Or how I pulled the trigger
here, to my chest, and after how you
fled along the highway, dropping a second
.40 though, out the window (still loaded with a slug
meant for you) where tire-marked
mutts bleed, sinking with wild sage
growing in blacktop
weeds. Tell her I watch you crawl
into your bed and still try to keep you
warm, beside your father. Still living
behind these walls I feel his thumbs
press into my skin, (closing
bullet belly-holes) while my icy fingers sew
him a new pair of wrists. Ask your mother, why she forced
separate beds on her lover-mate, and why
the running pink from his arms still stain
our kitchen sink. Let her heavy *****
know, (it's not her fault) she
shoved us from this single-bath
American rancher, with one foodstamp
still hidden in her blue-jean back
pocket and with the Walmart all the ways across
a black-clouded interstate. Make sure
she welcomes these trapped ghosts hanging on
wooden clothesline-pinned sheets, swaying
with wind gusts from the highway where unlucky stray dogs
bleed, sinking with wild sage growing in blacktop weeds.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
I had a dream the other night
That I had found a window
And that window revealed to me the entire world
I could see everything there is to see
I could see the sun set in one land
As it rose in another
Nothing could hide from the windows gaze
I could see kids in public parks
Late at night
Staring at the dark, foreboding trees
Hallucinating the majesty
Of the way the branches moved in the wind
And upon reflection
Were called into the forest
By the sinister shadows inside themselves
On the West Coast I saw a girl
Separated from her Midwestern friends
And her Midwestern love
(Whom I have not met)
I see as her mind is split
Cross country style
And her thoughts fall
Like the raindrops on her window
I see a single match being lit
In the basement of an East Coast hospital
A young boy has traveled many miles
(Hitchhiked across the country
In a time where the Cassadys and Kerouacs
The great heroes of the road
Have all died out
And the road is home to the carcasses of a million dear
A thousand raccoons and a hundred skunks)
The boy lights a second match
And with the match lights a candle
Then he pulls out an old dusty guitar
And begins to play
The boy,
Born too late,
Journeyed to this hospital
The hospital here his hero stayed
While his hero’s mind decayed
But now there is no one around
The hospital is long empty
So he plays a tune to himself
The guitars’ celestial strings sing
Echo through the Empty
But with the window I see the boy is not alone
The spirit of the boy’s hero
Smiles down upon the boy from Heaven
And with God & Saints
Bless the boy
The song
The guitar
Miles away
Out west on a lonesome prairie
In the cover of night
I see a man sit at the bar of a diner
The warm glow does not penetrate far into the solid darkness
The man is alone
A fry cook stands in the kitchen
But is not in the man’s view
The hostess is out back
Smoking in silence
The man is left with his thoughts
Along with his rancher’s jacket
And ***** ball cap
This man wears an air of sadness
I can’t hear what he is thinking
But in his silence I can feel the weight of that sadness
I can almost know all his troubles
The man finishes his coffee
Puts money on the counter
And leaves without saying a word
As the dream ends
And I can feel myself begin to wake
I can see all those faces staring back at me
Each look through their own windows
I see the man stare through his car window
And the window of hope
I see the West Coast girl
Stare out the window of a plane
And the window of longing
I see the boy stare through the window of time
And finally I see the children in the parks
Staring through the window of Nature
And the window of the soul
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC
in the winter night flew Elisha in the blizzard snow after that they said don't shoot elisha he might be there on the branches down below and when they when hunting in
the winter chill it gave the rancher a scare He said I raised him from a
baby he was so smart he drove me crazy one day I went to my sons house he was a priest and we went to a monstary all the priest were in a hurry to see this smart raven one of the priest held him up to give a blessing but he dropped him on the floor but he didn't say never more never more he flew up and on the wall there were pictures of the priest
and young elisha never ceased he found the picture of the priest that dropped him and pecked at the picture and flew out the window on a branch lim I caught him and said elisha i'm sorry that happen to you and he loved beer so I gave he some brew one day there was a storm
and I had to get the cattle in were it was safe and warm elisha tried to catch up with the herd he was defoted and relentless bird but poor young elisha couldn't find his owner and poor elisha became a loner
the rancher cryied but he always had hope that elisha was alive and the next winter came there was no one to blame that that raven was gone and when his son was old enough to hunt he told his son the story and siad you were this black had I wore when elisha was around and he would sore you were that hat to remind ya so you don't shoot elisha
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 4:00 PM UTC
she was the words trapped between bedsheets -
the conversations of past nights, secrets shoved between the pinprick holes in the mattress.
she was the way the bedside table always wobbled on the right leg,
the back and forth motion it made when a cup was balanced on its chest - on it’s thrumming heartbeat -
she was the things my mouth couldn’t say and my mind couldn’t comprehend -
the way her heels clicked against the tiles in our kitchen, the chip out of our bathroom counter, the way the sun splayed onto her back in a striped pattern from the blinds - slim and sly, her freckles illuminated in the galaxy speckled lines.
when I met her she was like nothing I’d ever seen before, she was words that got stuck in throats - thick and heavy with worry
-
she was the stumbling, sweet girl who asked me what my favorite color was on our first date, who looked at me as if I painted the colors of the leaves and I changed the seasons with my own fingertips.
when she left I tried to tell my therapist I didn’t think I would ever feel whole again -
I told him how she said it wasn’t her, that she had tried and tried but she didn’t think she could give me enough love to make me love myself - to make me respect myself enough to respect her. -
I told him about the secrets in the mattresses and the way our dresser had a heartbeat, and how everything she said and did was to make me feel like I had a purpose, like I was here for a reason - with her for a reason.
I tried to explain how she was the sound of the sun setting, and then I had to explain how the **** a sunset had a sound but he didn’t understand how everything had a sound when she was there,
when she loved me everything shone so ******* bright I thought I was going to lose my mind and when she left I thought I was going to ******* die. she kissed me hard that day, and she tasted like the cherry jolly rancher chapstick she had never quite grown out of using -
I told my therapist that jolly ranchers make me sick now, and that he said that maybe I had never liked them he said he had never met somebody who had such obscure symptoms of a heartbreak, but since she left I can’t even taste the artificial cherries without feeling sick.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 12:03 AM UTC
I woke up on Monday
like a Dog tangled up in barbed wire
And the Voices inside me
Singing like a discordant choir
My Hands gripped the wheel
I drove North with nowhere to run
And a grinding inside me
like bone against steel
And a heart with the weight of a gun
By the whine of the engine
and the rhythm of the highway beneath
I turned Left out of Denver
and Shifted an inch in my seat
The Mountains were heavenly
But did Nothing for the pain in my chest
With the Afternoon fading,
and the Road unpersuading
I Flew down I-70 West
On my Darkened commission,
I Drove till the gas tank was done
turned Off the ignition
And Threw the keys into the sun
I Kicked off my shoes as
The Sand turned from grey into gold
In the Starlight I wandered the
Desert, like a prophet of old
I Stumbled and crumbled and fell
Down in an arroyo to weep
But my eyes wouldn’t water,
so my crying turned softly to sleep
A Vision ran through me
A Dream of my children and wife
And a Beautiful, new world
With the Darkness transformed into light
then a Form blotted out the whole
World, like a total eclipse
as a Rancher knelt down, and brought a
Bottle to my sun-broken lips
As I lay there helpless,
He smiled as he took out his phone, saying
Softly and tenderly
ye who are weary come home
Many years have gone by since
the days of my journey through fire
and I know that the one who
deceived me, is surely a liar
and life like a dancer, is lifted
through rises and falls
And I have my answer, And it’s
everything, or it’s nothing at all
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC