"roosters" poems
The beauty of patience is in letting the sun
rise when it rises and shutting our eyes
when the dusk dawns believing the secrets
of life will come in the wake amidst the
crowing of the roosters.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
#Ogun owed Oxun for the fee he paid
to divorce Yemayá in the watery deep.
Babalu Aye‘s messenger delayed
(no *** in the bargain – price too steep)
until San Martín, divine caballero
deceived the third wife of el Indio Guerrero.
(Obatala‘s beats got lost in transit
the rhythm robbed by macumba-bandit.)
Eleguá cleared paths for He Who Opens Pores.
Black roosters smoked puros at midnight. Outdoors,
Santa Muerte was asked to turn down the noise
so Nana Buluku could get some sleep.
As she gathered Ashé, reduced to a heap
of Yoruba fool’s gold anointed with blood
Oduduwa pretended he understood;
but his mother-in-law knew he never would
until Olódùmarè returned from the feast
having sacrificed roosters while facing east.
The santero drew me a pictogram
to protect me from forces my poem conjured
but the blood of a sacrificed perfect lamb
affords more protection, I knew. He wondered.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 8:39 PM UTC
I am blessed,
With God in my life I am not stressed.
In the mornings, I awake to the unique sounds of nature,
Birds chirping, the wind blowing the leaves on the trees,
Roosters crowing, dogs barking.
I see the bright and glorious sunshine,
The butterflies playing in the air,
The cotton ball clouds,
The beautiful mountains and the lovely and
Sweet smelling roses.
I am blessed to behold the beauty of God’s creation.
I am blessed to have the opportunity to experience true salvation.
I am blessed; there is always food to eat and to share.
I am blessed, not stressed, well dressed, put to the test.
I am blessed, there is money to pay the bills and
I have feet to walk up the hills.
I am blessed, I am loved by my family and friends,
And most of all I have the love of Jesus Christ.
I am blessed, God provides for me in everyway,
He protects me and I know that He will never forsake me.
I am blessed
His angels are near and He has given me ears to hear.
I am blessed, I have lived to see another day,
My saviour has cleared the way.
I am blessed, I am in my right mind,
I can smile and make others smile as well.
I am blessed, I am in good health,
I can feel my heart beat the rhythmic beat of life,
As it vibrates against my chest:
Budup, budup, budup.
Oh, how wonderful it is to know,
That I am blessed, not stressed,
Well dressed, put to the test.
Praise the Lord!
I am blessed.
Aug 1, 2020
Aug 1, 2020 at 1:03 AM UTC
Take me back to the days of a Ghanaian sunset.
When hope dwelled above the waters of despair
And I gazed into the eyes of a sinking soul.
Where trust and fear were honest and pure --
Felt in the mountains, cities and fishing boats alike.
I want the hot air, the mango juice dripping down my hand, the dirt kicked up around my shoes, the roosters in the streets, the taxi cab dodgeball games, the eggshell passenger rides, and the shy children singing across from me on the shore. Because I want it all back.
It's the feeling I had when I was there in a wide space so open -- it is a feeling I call free.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 11:39 PM UTC
The morning finds the young lasses milking
And the young lads in the fields cutting
Rams, ewes, and lambs eat and grow fat.
The hens lay eggs while the roosters are strutting.
The sun rises up for his daily walk,
Drawing the day across the sky.
He takes his daylight with him to another place
Because the moon's time is nigh.
Evening falls across the heather
And the stars come out to dance.
The faerie folk come to life
And fill the night with their lyrical chants.
The mists on the moors swirl and caper about,
Taking rock and tree to embrace.
The faerie folk make merry and dance about
'Neath the silver of the moon's face.
They dance to music as old as time,
Melodies and rhythms from long ago.
Verses sung in ages long past,
Songs only faerie folk know.
They sing and dance under the moon and stars,
As long as the night covers them about.
But the moon and the faerie folk must go their ways
For 'tis time for the sun to come out.
Jul 17, 2011
Jul 17, 2011 at 3:48 PM UTC
Overcrowded a hollow sound
In the circumference of birdsong
Rising with the Sun
As roosters crow morning
Wake-up calls
There in Cebu / House
Full of family
Pieces of my other me
Feeding many mouths
That overcrowded feeling / not again
A nest that homes
A clutch of poor
Cuckoos
Consuming, so many babies
Paradise islands
Third world poverty
Not so far away
White man and money
A supposed land of milk & honey
Beyond the tundra snow
Bleak / must speak English
The beautiful broken
The overgrowth of crowding
it's called city life
Unlike Manila
Although artifice and hollow
Full of the fragrances
Colored by Birdsong
Oh beautiful life / I am drowning
In the thicknesses of pollutant
Mouths speaking
ill
Humanity misbegotten / Understood
We connect with nuttin'
“nothing is the cure
When nothing was wrong
With you”
Birdsong in twilight
Xylophone-stars across the ocean blue
Teeth of night
The cold chime
Befallen
In the infinite / magic of you
Oh love I let me
Overcrowd
Still this loneliness
Feels so very loud...
Then I hear / halcyon Birdsong
The soft feelings of truth
Oh love!
Oh god!
Oh my!
Goodness you.
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 12:16 PM UTC
Asylum
In the madhouse
on beds of daggers
we slept like crickets
chirping to ourselves
while they tried their best
to make us cannibals.
The nuns were worse than
lawyers, praying like accordions,
tracking their sins into our soft
wax skulls, wheezing like roosters
when one of us cried, laying the greasy ribs
of Jesus on our plates.
They kept you behind
door number six. I'd go to you
with a stolen key, when the noon
smelled bright as carnations,
when the nights were
more purple than the jacarandas.
You spoke of your father
dead of snakebite,
a clockwork marvel with
his million-dollar suit of skin,
of your mother
with the viper between her lips.
I remember your kiss
astringent with reason
as bitter lemons, and the way
your hair blew back from
your dog-brown eyes like poisonous
smoke from the oleanders.
I thought these things
as beautiful as angels
whispering in the dahlias
when I was lost in the asylum,
when the doctors did all they could
to see that we ate each other
down to the bone.
April 2022
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 8:54 AM UTC
As the sun faded
Behind the wooded mountain
A yellow rooster
Walked out of an old red barn
Resting on a post
Most roosters crow at daybreak
But this one did not
He slept all during the day
And crowed all night long
Then the farmer had enough
The rooster became dinner
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 1:41 AM UTC
There is incessant noise
in the city—as if the blinding light
blocking out the sky was not enough.
They never spread their wings, but oh,
do they spread far and wide; but their songs
are nothing to shake a tail-feather at.
The squabbling and screeching
of fighting roosters, the mimicry
of baby cockatiels finding their voices,
the chattering of gossiping hens,
hawks that stalk the night
only to swoop in screaming
at the first sparrow to cross their paths,
the mourning doves who wake alone
to cry and moan their songs of melancholy.
They remain awake and call out into the night
longer than the old owl in the park.
The ****** of crows bear witness
to the clamor on this night; looking on—
as the Eyes of God—
in disgust and judgment.
These tall, fleshy creatures see fit
to complain of the calls of pigeons and gulls
when their noise is the farthest-reaching plague
that keep all awake at night.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 11:05 PM UTC
we leave by passing through.
by outlasting
roots.
by grooming deep runes
like arabian
horses....
mountainous [ pontoons ]
spine crack
liqueur
of soft doom
and true Orchids...
the ******** aftermath of covenants
at half mast
a limp flag of jolly rogers
pettifogging
dull noggins.
we pass through, phantom roosters
ante-Bantam
in the Bedlam....
Conscience
Chauntecleer
as
Opaque.
our blood has new boots
and now our hearts
can Mussolini
{ you strangle The Headless Horseman; as i lust for your Ichabod }
no cranes.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 8:54 AM UTC
When you think
you're the only rooster
think again.
Rooster in the hen house
wins the hen.
The hen will stay
well behaved.
Until there's a hole
in the fence.
Then the hen will become
free rein again.
As the hen leaves
the roost!
That's when the other roosters
will strike again.
She will fluff up her feathers
to look the part!
Just Don't look away
for there is another
rooster up ahead.
This hen will react to
the new rooster
when it says,
cock-a-doodle-doo
That's when the hen smiles
and sounds off with
a cluck or two.
As the hen sticks her chest out.
Her tail feathers will go up.
The rooster she's with.
She doesn't give a flying
fluck
And the scenario
repeats itself
over and over again.
For this rooster is just
a bird brain.
It's all in his head!
That's what the hen
will say.
You're making it all up again.
So don't walk around to proud
saying,
**** -a-doodle-doo
with this hen.
She's not your hen.
She has to go back to
the roost soon.
She scored her points
with another rooster.
With it's cock-a-doodle-doo
That's all that matters
to this hen.
So, the next time
when the hen is outside
the fence.
She won't be cluckin for you.
It will be for the other rooster
that said cock-a-doodle-doo
in front of you.
For that rooster, does not care
who is with this hen.
As long as It gets
this hen in the end!
Back through the hole
in the fence.
The hen returns to
the roost.
Like so many times before.
To the rooster in the hen house
that
always wins.
Simba
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 11:16 PM UTC
Once we were panthers,
sleek and powerful
embroidered in the silks
of midnight and dawn.
Passing the reflections
of city windows
as all bare streets
gave us their throats-
Tasting of blood and love.
And then the morning went away.
The dust settled with a silent thunderclap
the open streets closed upon us
with a wall of eyes,
We reached our hands forth
and touched nothing -
but the ivory shadow
left by
daffodils in death.
The day the morning went away.
We poured our questions
into the water supply,
we drank the mix
as the night rolled by.
It painted upon our minds
that we were snow coated deer
and soon we took their form.
We never made love again
we simply locked horns
until the roosters call
called us to stop.
For to make love
became a **********
and to **** without mercy
our golden seduction
into their secret submission
The day the morning went away.
Your perfect stranger
became your perfect enemy
your perfect enemy,
your perfect friend
and you were silenced by the thunderclap
you were silenced by
the thunderclap.
My little panther
afraid of the quiet thunder
afraid of the doe eyed stare
that cuts you from the mirror
cuts you right down
to the bone.
I watched you place
your tiny
white
lipstick to the corner
of your eyes
and manicure
your perfect
stag horns
as you brace yourself
to step outside.
The morning mist
comes into your lungs
and you exhale
a liar’s hello
to all below.
The day the morning went away.
Our ebony coats were hung up on a nail
we once were panthers
now our hearts are meek
we once were panthers
we once chose to seek,
now we flee at the sight
of moths dancing in the
summer light.
We once were panthers
we once were panthers
we once were glorious panthers.
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 12:31 AM UTC
Revel in space, yet not darkled, still
the **** and span of things that breeds
airlessness; The trees are evenly cut,
and their overgrowth seems like a forethought.
Where I am from, we eat fish with
our bare hands and our furniture, from bodies
of sandalwood, crushed with the scent of
peregrines. The morning makes you conscious
of space, and altogether the height of trees
syncopates to a nauseating stillness. In the awning
hours, leaves punctuate the ground – the cicada
with its machinistic song prowls, spills like
water from a broken vase toppled by me
years younger, raw, agile, deftly windless,
wounded in love, lovingly wounded,
perhaps if there is a word for it, then let me
have my way, easily fraught with its meaning:
a casualty. Sometimes the timeworn folks
would light cigarettes underneath the canopy
of a mango tree to banish ants and send them back
to their queens – roosters in their wrinkled stations
croon in stasis, a song for the somnolent. I become
what the seasons evict. Constancy. Rearing weight
and gravity from nocturne. Tears are communal.
They make us aware of the weight of the Earth.
Somewhere, a funebre stilts through the silence,
and the jangle of little pieces spells out fortuity,
men in huddles mending pain by the sleight of hand,
a toss of a card, spinning in its imaginary axis: fate,
feigned and fine-tuned to belief that it is controllable,
a variable, or a tabulation marred by frailty. From where
I am from, people stride through the streets naked,
soldering baskets filled with fruits gossamer from the
harvest, children suckling their mothers, the music of sweeping
metastasizes throughout the afternoon, and the same clouds
contort themselves to afford wry proposition: it is a day tender
with wonder, its allure overwrought, its sheen unremarkable.
The funebre leaves with a necessary abundance of absence.
All the leaves depart from their mothering boughs,
collapsing on the dreary back of the loam like penitence.
Like how once when you were young, you tinkered with
the fresh scab of your wound and felt the pain confine
itself there, a part of you, that has now healed, but is still
available for the world to break once again.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
There once lived a family of rats, caught up in wires and tubes and they probably thought they had it good until
the car started.
That car’s air conditioning smelled like death stench for weeks, until we
got it looked at.
Who knew we killed a family, who knew they ate their way under the hood,
who knew we killed a family and they reminded us of it for weeks.
——
My mother and father killed my dog, barely big enough to not be called a puppy anymore,
they ran over her,
as she slumbered in the tall weeds and grasses of a field.
——
We had a chicken named Thumper, his body grew big but his head never did,
and he teetered and tottered on ballerina pointed feet, and
the other roosters wanted to
eat him alive.
When we sacrificied him,
my parents plucked his back,
and they saw that his skin was a green-purple secret,
hidden by a humpback and so
many feathers.
——
Our third horse got caught in the river.
Big Mama got caught in Little River.
I guess it’s not surprising when big things die when they get caught in little things.
——
The coyotes got the rest of the chickens.
——
The rattlesnakes almost got the rest of the horses.
——
Most people don’t know that farm-fresh eggs are covered in blood.
——
We had two of the largest, ugliest geese.
They flew away.
——
The cat died under the hot tub,
we couldn’t find her for days.
——
The forest is always a graveyard,
is always hallowed ground,
is where we buried the animals.
Then they built a subdivision.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 2:22 AM UTC
A message to the boy minding the pastry,
one finger in each the webs
of cosmic lust and mercy,
waiting to be told it is fine to want
the best for everybody:
It is fine. It is fine.
What are you?
Were you born here?
No, I was born on the banks of the Seine,
beside the boneyard of the nameless,
in the pits of Delhi with
the blood of roosters on my toes,
***** who pecked one another
to their entrails because the
colony of the living sunrise was
shrunk to a pocket of feathers and fire
by some wire, wood, and staples.
I was born in the Academy of Athens,
where Socrates made salsa with hemlock
and danced into a dialogue,
because the grocery habaneros were all too tender,
and St. Augustine could offer no alternative.
Never forget - we were born to unfairness;
unfair as long as our appetites differ,
or we exhaust sooner than one another,
or we grip one another differently and come at different times.
The only person less fair than me is God.
But my justice - that is perfect,
like my voice, which has none of a gavel's
authority. Or my heart: which was manacled by giants
and sentenced to be pecked by a flying poem, a girl
with hair she won't comb, a song about Jerusalem.
Fair. **** fair.
I am fair as long as I can wait, quiet -
silent as the sand, sunburned and happy,
to be drawn into
that kindness, the Atlantic - - -
the flip and twist of the sea.
Oct 24, 2011
Oct 24, 2011 at 4:01 PM UTC
the township's roosters
crowed this morn
they crowed
well before dawn
their crowing rang
in the air
like a noisy
county fair
the township arose
from its rest
at the rooster's
crowing behest
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 7:09 PM UTC
I guess this is my first.
It's really just a poem.
A few words
Arranged into a few lines
With a few spaces and dots and curly things that split our words into pieces...
Just my first.
No one really likes firsts, do they?
Not for school, at least,
Or for taking out the trash
Or forcing your legs to throw your body into the swelling body of water beneath you.
So, honestly,
I can't blame your for hating it.
Then again, you could love it.
After all, firsts are good for races.
They're also good for test scores.
And, if I'm remembering correctly, I know a set of twins that get into plenty of arguments about who should have come first.
So, yea, firsts can be good.
They're good for the presidents.
And the roosters.
Firsts are also pretty good for travelers.
I mean, if there were no firsts, how would travelers ever have anywhere new to go?
However, I don't really know how people feel about firsts in sickness.
Or death.
That could also be a bad one.
Well, anyway.
Here I am.
With a poem.
My first poem.
And, as we have found out here, firsts are very easy to love.
And they're very easy to hate.
And they're also very easy to ignore.
But I guess it doesn't really matter now, does it?
Because, what'll happen when my second comes along?
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 11:43 PM UTC
poetry isn't just for white people, Vivian
isn't a girl's name, and I will
wear these white jeans past Labor Day.
we forget that we could
touch the stars if we *******
tried, but instead we are
here, drowning in atmosphere,
choking on our inhibitions.
there are ten pills tucked
in the very back of your desk;
you love them but
they're about to become a
crutch, and you are frightened.
I don't **** with that
new ****
but it's not like you care.
I'm still the same *******
idiot, total trash, I
deleted your number
and I won't send you
snapchats,
I wonder if you
deleted my dickpics.
lost intimacy, windowsill
cacti, a Ziplock full of ******* stuffed
inside your pillowcase;
I went for a run, your
name traipsing about my
prefrontal cortex, smashing
memories, beheading roosters,
screaming incoherently about
subprime mortgages and
credit derivatives.
the government is lying about
9/11 but no one really cares;
the government is arming oppressive regimes in
Missouri but white people don't care;
would that I had such
willful ignorance, the right to
ignore the slaughter on our
front lawns.
my parents started from the
bottom, they survived in
America, decapitated birds on the doorstep.
I do not have their strength and I am
washing Xanax down with Gatorade and
refusing to apologize.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
FRIDAY
1:00 – 3:30
I swept the packing area.
Three neat piles of duct tape,
plastic wrap, saw dust, dumped
into a trashcan. Made
another mess while packing
toys into boxes for the
community’s Angel Tree.
MONDAY
11:15 - 12:45
A self-proclaimed alcoholic
asked me for a cigarette. He
preached to me with an unsteady
tongue and hollow eyes. I met a case
worker named Maria and alphabetized
children’s names and Christmas wishes.
2:30 - 4:30
Stapled $7.00 price tags
to shirt collars, pants pockets,
working alongside a man
who served ten years in
prison. He finished loading
a shopping cart and I pushed
the items into the store.
I put cracked ceramic plates,
dusty books, and twisted wire
roosters onto an empty shelf.
TUESDAY
2:30 – 3:30
Maria turned the wish forms
into Captain Smith. I went
to the Captain’s office and
entered Christmas wishes
into a database. Captain Smith
tapped her fingers on the desk,
hummed along to her Christian
radio station and talked about
the importance of volunteers.
3:45 – 5:00
The yard on the east side
of the store needed to be
cleaned. Plastic wrap blown
into the barbed wire fence
surrounding broken computers,
archaic metal heaters, and
miscellaneous types of scrap.
After we loaded the trailer
I swept the packing area
and smoked a cigarette.
WEDNESDAY
11:15 – 1:30
I finished entering the
forms into Captain
Smith’s computer
while she was out
at lunch. I walked around
outside but I didn’t find
the drunk. Captain
Smith signed my
completion of volunteer
service sheet and joked,
“I guess we won’t be
seeing you again.”
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
I wanna wisk you away to a Tropical Paradox
Run a Risk filled Forest Gump Chocolate Box
Wear your flip flops and your Crocs with Socks
We’re all in the matrix , so don’t give any Focks
Where if someone talks **** tell em to lick Rocks
Roosters tend to grow hard just like Fort Knocks
Soak up that Vitamin D while you ride for free
Try and hide those lies, while you Moisturize
Shampoo & condition me, with Pantene Pro V
Face mask your cries, with a Creamy Disguise
Throw me 21 salutes, I’ll catch them 22 times
Even a group of mutes, feel my spoken rhymes
Nov 29, 2018
Nov 29, 2018 at 9:15 PM UTC
the raiders show, full time report, 21 march 2015, we ****
as we draw the final curtain, the raiders **** again
it was a great start but then they faded away
just like they usually do
you see the raiders were woeful, especially in the 2nd half
no i am discusted oh yeah
it was the worst match, back to the old drawing board
johnny’ thanks and what a woeful performance in the end, by the raiders, and it actually is a hard
job picking the raider of the match, only one raider scored in the second half, but here is sue longways
with the raider of the match, horrible effort
sue’ yeah, johnny, it was a horrible effort but the raider of the match goes to brett austin, now brett what went wrong
brett’ well, sue, we were woeful in that second half, and the dragons were just too good
sue’ yeah, were you thinking victory, at half time, maybe too over confident so to speak
brett’ yeah, maybe we were over confident in the first half, but the dragons got 8 points before the break, and
then another 14, well, anyway, terrible match
sue’ anyway here is the raider of the match medallion, congrats and now here is bob from gordon
bob’ and now we draw the final curtain, the raiders **** again
it was a really terrible game, buddy a terrible match for the raiders team
yeah the raider, ya know they do **** it was a woeful game
what happened to the hopeless raiders, ya know the raiders ****
what is wrong with the mighty raiders, they didn’t look so mighty tonight
why couldn’t the raiders win it, i think it’s just that their hopeless
sue’ and now here is johnny brown with his jingle, not our johnny brown, johnny from duffy
johnny’ we are on the rocking horse caused by the raiders losing
you see we rocked all day long
they are sitting on the rocking horse, all day long, my love
i wished our raiders won
you see, the raiders had a bad match, good start, but hopeless finish
really the raiders faded, yeah, what a woeful effort, yeah woeful effort woeful effort yeah mate ****** yeah
sue’ thanks johnny brown, and now back to our johnny brown
johnny’ thanks sue, that was a terrible match and to make matters much worst, we play the roosters next game
and i say, we’ll lose to the roosters next week and here is micheal with his jingle
micheal, go the dragons, we kicked some ****** ***
go dragons, we showed some fucken class
yeah the mighty st george, oh yeah, yeah they were great in the end
go dragons kick some ****** *** go dragons, show some ****** class
go the dragons go the dragons, dragons won true blue, GO DRAGONS
johnny’ ok now everybody it’s beer o’clock and the raiders were given a football lesson, a rootball lesson
and we have the reason to give canberra much credit, except for the first 18 points
CATCH YA NEXT TIME raiders show fans
DRAGONS OVER RAIDERS 22 - 20
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 4:52 AM UTC
*Much as the Second hand promised
To see the minute hand in 60 seconds
The minute, the hour hand in 60 minutes
And the hour to see the day in 24 hours
And the day to see the week in 7 days
And the week in four to see the month
The month to see the year in a dozen
Which year swore to the decade in a Ten
And the Decade told Century to wait for a percentile
Much as the dawn promised to come again
And the Tears to camouflage in the rain
Much as the road promised to never end
And waves dared shake our love my friend
Much as watered Roses promised to bloom
And your smile to outshine all the gloom
Much as eternity is never assured
And no broken heart completely cured
Much as weather holds the unreliable tone
And world believes nothing's cast to stone
Much as the roosters promise to always crow
And the king of the jungle to loudest roar
None ordered my heart to make you mine
No day ever promised the moon will shine
But my feelings as tall and strong as the pine
Will never be averted but probably thine*
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 1:59 PM UTC
I want to be
wrapped in your arms
how the tree's branches
intermingle with the wind;
how the peaks of the hills
tumble over
one another's shadow at dusk;
how mist clings to dew
on grass wisps
whistling a good morning tune
back to the roosters' song at dawn,
the silent clap of two hearts
high-fiving
amidst the storm's handshake
with forest fingertips,
complimenting eyelash bats
and butterfly kisses
under the Moon's pupil;
how the stars trip
over their two left feet
and come crashing down
into your atmosphere
intertwined with mine.
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 4:40 PM UTC
walking through the dark
on the outskirts of Baton Rouge
just me and a bunch of stars
no one else to talk to
the yard is staging cars
expecting a train
I gather my gear
trying to beat out the rain
wind is howling
roosters start to crow
6-string on my back
I'm bound for a Houston show
I like the early morning
quiet, dark, and cold
and watching for that engine
tryin ta breathe real low...
the "CLASP! of thunderous coupling
"SkReeeech," its time ta go
wind starts ta rushing
this steel carries me on
May 23, 2021
May 23, 2021 at 12:28 PM UTC