"scrounging" poems
My old great-aunt Elaine with her withered hands gave me $200 and beaded handbag
"This your mad money," she told me, as we sat on that nursing home couch, "And it ain't for your purse. This goes in your shirt, where only you know you got it."
The assisted-living nurse chuckled to herself. They got along, my great-aunt and her.
"Why?"
"Cuz if you get angry," she said, in that Marlboro-raspy voice of hers, "And you gotta go, you walk out on your date and you leave 'is *** And then you got your money for a strong drink. And your cab."
The nurse laughed
My aunt re-situated herself on the nursing home couch. Elaine Dauterive. Her mind was going, and so was her health, but she was as regal as a queen on her throne in that moment
her fire-red hair, ungrayed, was her crown
No cape as royal as that sleeping gown.
"Don't you think for once second I can't take care of you, honey," she said in that creole drawl, and I knew what she meant
Because even after she'd gone I would have that mad money
All stuffed in my bra for when I needed it
Because she was older than time, for me, seeing things like
The Great Depression, World War II
What I read in history books
I'd be ****** if I took what she said with even one grain of salt because Auntie-Lane, I'll be ****** if I don't love you
And I know you're on your way out and
I'll buy you whiskey in the afterlife with some of that $200 cash that you busted your *** scrounging up for me
Southern hospitality at its finest
And those liver spots redder than wine adorn you like badges of honor for all of the years you've endured
My elder - creole woman, with a soul as fire-red as her hair, breathing more smoke than air
My old dragon
On a pile of gold: her mad money
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 11:00 AM UTC
The truth is, I’m not really sure who I am. She told us to draw ourselves and then to draw our souls; so I drew my face scratched and uneven, just as I’ve always seen it, and frowned at the result both in the mirror and on the paper. The only soul I’ve ever really known was the one that shone through the strokes of the keys I punched, the scrawling of ink on paper in mismatched arrays of awkward thoughts, disorientated and unorganized, shaded different spews of emotion and rearranged through the lens of ever last viewer’s eye. Even so, this soul that is composed of words that defined me painted a picture vivid in its contrast, though blurry from both afar and close enough to squint, no details able to be made out. These words that have wrapped around my soul rubbed raw from the time my skin first flinched at the cool March air cannot be deciphered by their author, though I know somehow that their letters flowing into one another say more than any curve of my face ever could. These words are black and white, two extremes crafted in the pallet of the Universe’s toolshed, and perhaps that’s exactly what I am. Black or white. I’m dark and lost and scrounging for some rusting wall or tree branch to cling to as to ensure the shimmering waves, onyx and charcoal in their nature with the flow of blood in its spine, do not flood into my mouth at a rate in which is too quick to balance myself upon them, or, I’m white, drifting snow from a cloud scraping the vast expanse of brilliant blue gazing as a sky above all the world, pure, innocent, unscathed with the potential for creation in vibrancies yet unknown, or to be ripped to bits, scattered amongst piles of cream and autumn leaves drained of their color beneath months of shivering frost. And so, perhaps any physical representation of my being would be all wrong, because that’s not what I am. Myself, my soul, it resides in the murky depths of heights I’ve yet to discover, tethered endlessly and uncertain among the caverns of my inners, pink and mushy, stirred and ****** untouched from the harsh light of a world encased in brevity.
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC
When the funding is cut
So the hospitals shut
That’s a Tory
When the poverty bites
And you lose human rights
That’s a Tory
Such excess
Better reassess
Better repossess
Better get yourself private healthcare
Overtaxed if you work
Unemployed? Then you're scrounging on welfare
When there’s bigoted views
Blatant lies on the news
That’s a Tory
When the biggest and best
Are too rich to arrest
That’s a Tory
But they’re lax
Covering the cracks
Never paying tax
Claiming everything on expenses
They can steal with a smile
While they peddle their flimsy defences
When they're guilty of fraud
And they're banking abroad
That's a Tory
If they're selling your school
When 'austere' means 'cruel'
That's a Tory
Too much spin
Slogan and a grin
Wearing pretty thin
Bussing people in to applaud them
Any law can be bought
If you're well off enough to afford them
That's all folks and remember, you can't spell Theresa May without heresy
**
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 7:04 PM UTC
And after, there is only a gaping emptiness
the familiar ache
The desire to drown myself in soft things
Fill my pockets with pebbles and all the poems my muses will never read
And wade into the Lethe
To the place of the first breath after momentary pain
The liminal gasp between sighs
The first touch after a long absence
Body awakening to memory.
*Welcome weary traveller, you are safe here. Dwell. Abide.
The scrounging scratching crawl you call a life withdraws.
Here,
Float in the fingers of sunlight through glass
The murmur of breath against hair
The glimpse of ripples from a water-strider’s gait.
Here,
You are small and safe
You suffer no harm nor cause it
Your existence has curled in on itself
And blooms with the sunrise.
Here,
Your presence is a fleck on a robin’s egg
The bruise of teeth on a petal
An eyelash in sand
Lost, lingering, and longing.*
The Lethe plucks the pebbles and poems into the current
Your likeness billows with ink in the wake
Adrift, I clutch at your fading hand
But rising, find I do not know this face
Left only with a flicker
Of a stranger’s arms
around my waist.
Aug 12, 2021
Aug 12, 2021 at 9:05 PM UTC
I am from inconsistency,
forced adjustment,
eternally molding in a feeble attempt to appease my demanding environment.
I am from the loophole of the universe with no purpose,
few absolutes,
and a limited amount of time.
From laugh tracks,
reminding me when to laugh,
and for how long.
From the boredom at the bottom,
I've been Thriving in the *** trough,
endlessly scrounging for solutions and temporary entertainment.
From redundant ideas and places,
stale bread,
flat coke,
familiar situations and words.
On a screen in america
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
If I ever get my feet back on the ground,
I'm going to buy me a bottle and head on in to town.
I'm going to find me a girl that treats me kind,
one that pays some attention to what's on my mind.
Dollars to donuts, we'll feel real good,
anything and everything will go down just as it should.
No more thistles and thorns, no more raging thunderstorms.
No more boot heels on the ground, no more horrendous hissing sound.
We'll bring to the table just what we've got,
we'll spend when we are able and stay home when we're not.
We'll kick up our heels to those Celtic reels,
forgetting how it feels to be scrounging our meals.
Those will be the days that we'll choose to recall,
I know this is a phase and better times will put an end to it all.
Dollars to donuts, these hard times will pass,
dollars to donuts, these hard times won't last.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 12:13 PM UTC
In experience you have learned
which tunnel to explore.
You enter this
tunnel for promises of
"gold and precious things!".
But this promise
did not enter through ear;
but thoracic permeation
Well prepared having
spelunk'ed before;
light- your pack
light- in hand.
Climbing, scrounging to escape
the tight entrance with
jagged rocks and false paths
it's many turns and falls-
although you cannot keep
your flashlight straight
experience triumphs, as in
a maze done quickly
once done before.
One strong pull
emerging through;
cave's pupil dilates.
Ground so smooth and wet
though wise to walk
we tend to slide
why?
Faster to the gold
Faster for exhilaration
Faster because faster!
and... why not?
hitting rough spots mid-slide
pain in debt to speed.
You let your feet
gain some tract
as the tunnel
narrows
Solomatic mind; without
doubt- body complies.
A slight gust tickles
but this tunnel is not through...
Alas! A shining shimmer is seen!
The earth is rough
to navigate
difficult; (but shimmers numb the sense)
pain soon saturates and stops your
smallest movement, heartbeat, fidget,
thought... The light is moving near?
As tunnels break space and time
and especially direction
feel as though you've lifted up
and the cave, the light, and all
rushes to you.
The sound of breathing relocates,
oh, yes that's you.
gun to back, hostage of Aphrodite
running, sprinting, breathless
you seek this precious shimmer
soon to realize it's coming
faster, harder, alarming to
you.
Looking ahead-
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap
the sound the light bequeaths
not from ten feet but maybe
five, you realize it's you
heavy- pack
heavy- darkness follows
sprinting, pushing through.
And the entrance could not be any farther.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 5:24 PM UTC
One day my mind, which is chaotic tried to recollect the past
Yes, I need to do this....
After a breakup my mind is really worried
And now it has crash landed into the world of words .
How? why I'm like this?
May be this is the reality ;
It is like a splatter film, appalling and dreadful .
How did you turned my world upside down ?
Even a single word of "love " could have defined me
But now not just the whole poem.
The whole world thwarted my efforts
Break up with cruel “homo-sapiens” is like a big crambo !
You were ready to make agreements
Put your ***** "cool" signature
On the sheets made with my blood
What happened with all that love letters ?
Now all that has ended up like a scrounging note
A promise that you had never accomplished!
It is too late my dear.....
Even the prayer "sustainable " will never save you.
Now accept the reality ,
From Rio to Paris nothing has changed
But I have changed a lot.....
I have lost almost everything.
I will not protect you anymore
You will repay for all the atrocities
This is not just the curse of your ex,
This is the grudge of being unfortunate
Only because I was in love with you.
Are you still longing for more ?
April twenty second will always be cherished
The day that has been put aside by you for me, isn't it ?
Oops, again I forgot...
The day created in my name for you,
To fill your annual report sheets .
My dear it's time to pay for your sins
Before that I bid you goodbye.
©malavikavipin
Dec 22, 2018
Dec 22, 2018 at 5:39 AM UTC
There is a chaos theory that is dominate in my mind,
one of proper thought that has gone array,
visions of violations to our fellow man,
and whispers amongst the thieves.
If there is no honor,
then the point will be to survive in anarchy,
groveling and scrounging in the night,
to feed the pains in our bellies,
In my eyes, I will **** to feed,
but there is others who will not allow it,
and the storyline will be "I will need to be fulfilled before you'
maybe I will commit another act of treason.
After the rapture, those who live will be wasted,
like it was since ever since,
there will be title fights for structure and hierarchy
but it will still be life after Armageddon.
What will hope do to mankind?
its remains to be seen.
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 5:52 PM UTC
Nature/Nurture
Which one hurts ya?
Born a ***** or raised a *****
Take your pick.
Mother Nature can be sick,
But so can your mother and so can your father.
Look at yer brothers
Look at yer sisters
All of 'em idiots
None of 'em got jobs
What's your prospects?
A life of desk jobs?
Nah, dealing and stealing
Taking without feeling
That's what you'll do
No dreams of being well-to-do.
You were born poor,
Raised to be poor,
Cos you're forgotten by the government,
No votes to be gained from givin' you a helping hand.
Born poor, stay poor.
No cultural capital
To help cast off the metaphorical manacles
That shackle any sense of aspiration that might give you inspiration
To defy nature
To defy nurture.
------------------------------
I'll prove ya wrong!
I was born poor for sure,
Raised poor is right,
But my folks weren't sick,
They raised me not to be a *****
My bloodline shows no decline
Just not born with entitlement,
So don't judge,
That's just ******* lazy
Don't believe the argument:
Nature versus nurture
I am me, now,
So don't get frenetic about my genetics.
I have free-will
I will pay my bills,
Not be defficient,
But be self-sufficient.
And what about you?
Sat in your Ivory Tower
Indulging in your power to judge those you don't know,
Believing them to be a product line of people scrounging,
Needing hand downs from the Crown
Doing nothing but clowning around,
Smoking dope
Being without hope.
But I will be someone,
And prove you wrong,
So put your patronising way to bed
Coz I'm not lazing away until I'm dead.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 2:04 AM UTC
It had been almost a year now.
Scrounging around for supplies was proving tiresome.
Everything either went rotten or protected by wild beasts.
In this world ravaged by flares, animals who had seemingly taken over the world for themselves, were fighting simply for survival.
The man locked himself in a room with all he could secure.
But at this point, his sanity was at its breaking point.
He sat nursing his wounds from his last fight with a wolf.
He wondered, against which monstrous animal he was going to have to fight for his life next.
Which demonic creature was going to try tearing him apart limb from limb for a bit of food.
Which savage brute was going insane and was willing to rip apart his bones, if it meant surviving for another day.
Then he heard a knock on the door.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 10:19 AM UTC
I wish I could write a great piece and then chill for a few
Instead of scrounging each day to create something new
Every poem I write literally makes me jones for more
Is it the poet or the addict in me?
I really can't be sure
Aug 13, 2021
Aug 13, 2021 at 10:13 PM UTC
you're the boxspring billionaire of feel-good
saving up your love for a rainy year,
scrounging and saving every fleeting smile and shallow kiss and
miserly, hunched over with the weight of your own suffering and despair,
each scrapped-together pile of crumpled-from-your-pockets shreds of I.O.U.s and featherlight touches.
too afraid to leap and risk, you'll never grow or invest your affections into the stocks of Lisa and George LLC, or Francis and Kelly Inc.
so your love is bound to crumble into fragile dust, the fruits of your labours withering into mouldy piles of seed, stem, and flesh.
the could-have-been and might-have-grown dying, before even living to flourish and erupt into glorious blooms of the strikingly ethereal and otherworldy.
but not for you, not ever for you.
you're the boxspring billionaire of feel-good
and you'll burn before planting your love.
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
D’evils
Devils amongst us, painted in a glisten, dipped in gold. And thus, if to them, you truly listen, thou shan’t make it to old.
A patter of steps, trailing, lurking, never rest. For if guard is lost, with her eyes, you will get undressed.
A slither of a tongue, a caress or two, scrounging around for what it is, that weakens you. May it be ambition, may it be vanity.
The appearance of it, a delusion, for something so innocent, could wield your sanity.
Like a fisherman in calm waters, peering about into the blue sea, an encounter, lies a test for thee, beautiful it is, promises empty as hollow.
Peer closer he does, a goner he may, in the waters he is swallowed.
For she lured and prevailed it be, beauty is no longer hailed, as to him, it and the devil, are now a simile.
D’evils.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 10:01 AM UTC
Always searching for somewhere
Anywhere else
To let my mind wander
Away from myself.
Free to live higher
than even the clouds
Floating on other's thoughts
Blending in with the crowds.
I'm searching, I'm looking
Desperate for escape
Because life is ******
And I don't know my fate.
What's the future hold?
Does it even exist?
Externally scrounging
For internal bliss.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 1:02 AM UTC
Sometimes most days almost always
When I
Scrounging stuck in traffic
Unknown mayflies driving the cars around
Insectoid feelers grasping the wheel
When I
Bones of lava boiling over
Teeth everywhere and pointy
I hypothesize:
A mass extinction event or
A pandemic colony collapse
Wouldn't be
Too bad
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 10:58 PM UTC
He kept trying
Over, and Over, and Over
To take Her home
Being a good *********
Grew tiresome the more I
Drank
He started to beg Me
Because I never leave her alone
Not even on
One-night-stands
I kept telling him
He is a ****
Shut up
One last time:
Erin, come on!
**** no!"
"I'll make you a grilled cheese."
"Yes!, let's go!"
I slept on the couch
His bathroom vanity
Is filled with anti-balding
Creams
Maybe his insecurities
Are a part of his
Slutiness
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I miss Micronesia food
I wanna eat gross ramen
Greasy **** in a ***** bowl
Went to the grocery store with Jesse:
"find the cheapest ****
White rice
I ate four bowls of it
So good
**** yes!
The kids used to fight
Knock each other around
Scrounging
Over ***** of white rice
Even the four day old
Rotten ones
Because they were always better
Than the rotten boiled bananas
She thinks to herself:
"Nothing will ever
Be this fun again"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The girls I teach with are nice
But I don't have a white-collar
Sense of humor
My humor is filthy
So I stay quiet
People at work don't know
How funny I am
Seven of them are pregnant right now
We'll be ******* in a few months
They talk about how there feet
Grow as their pregnancies progress
******* fascinating
My closest friend there in the
Kindergarten pod doesn't drink
So we only get so far
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC
In the bardo*
you are floating
aboard the barge of couldhavebeens
and moments that were unseen
not the world
not a boy or a girl
lost
Lost boys are found toys for Thor’s hands
to play with
Lightening lick of guitar solo
striking health into blushed cheeks
Soon you’ll no longer need to be
painted
The eye patches will be removed
and pirate life won’t mean
Scrounging and wishing for an oasis
you’ll throw a life saver
throw a light saber
Glisten the sparkzap through tables
laden with all that’s been spat
from vitriolic minds
Listen
sore elbows from nudging bad spirits away
Blades of bone
and intention can saw through sadness
to the light beyond
like the sky’s pinholes
Stars aren't the cuttings of children
the dark is just a covering
Poke a finger through
Don't fear if you get stuck
for it is only the backdrop to a stage
hiding the mass of light
only there to protect us from blinding joy
Like sunglasses
So be one with your sadness
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 6:02 PM UTC
I've never felt at home
This isn't a place I know
The ceilings are too high
Strange things sit everywhere by & by
The people who reside there are strangers to me
I'd say that I'm the black sheep
But really, I'm the antelope
And they like antelope
Like baristas like bad music
And when they dip their finger in
Wrist deep next time, then again
'Till I'm left in the bottom of the *** kettle black
Scrounging around blind,
Trying to find what I lack
And all I hear are their pitiful laughs
As they fulfill their petty needs
With all of my earnings
And then they pick me up by the collar
Make sure to shake me loose of any last dollars
They toss me in the water for a long hard swim
The ***** water crashes into my mouth again & again
I choke and drown but fight this death
With each and every beaten, soapy, breath
I climb out wet and ragged and I crawl into my hideaway
They feel uncomfortable in there,
Dreams and love and art are not understood by them
And I look in the mirror
This poor, raggedy, sodden with soap and dirt, broken little girl.
Who could grow like wild flowers in different soil
Is limp and soft and
And.
And...
and...
Her face hardens.
She goes to sleep another night.
And knows she fights tomorrow, the same fight
But she feels her chest harden tight.
Until she can plant the seed
In some other soil,
She'll till it out of love,
Not the turmoil.
No, not the turmoil.
There is plenty of that around.
Her seed will be put into the ground.
And she will grow next to the beautiful dawn.
He can watch her grow and feed her lovely rays.
He disappears at night,
But he comes back during the days.
And they can thrive together.
Just have to get through the last of this bad weather.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 11:36 AM UTC
the first thing people would say upon our engagement is show me the ring like some bling is an ode of your love to me. i am not a homemaker i am a homebody. i excel in colombian coffee and monday night pub specials and cheap wine with expensive labels. i excel at being one of the guys and by being one of the guys i mean not being your wife. i filled the crevices you scraped in me like some kind of sculptor smoothing over past mistakes like being your wife was some kind of placebo pill i can sweat out with half-empty pizza boxes and grease stains on a couch that was never mine. when i first tell people about us about what i've done they say
but you two fit so well
but i liked you together
but you were going to get married
but but but
but they don't see your knuckles almost shaking hands with my jawline or the time i stared at you deadpan i'm not scared of you and i think that's what scared you that i'm no battered wife that i'll take you all bleed you dry then smile from the corner.
i am no battered wife like the woman who raised you
whose christmas-gifted blanket i'm currently curled under but whose 4 a.m. whispered words i cherish more he can't make you forget what you felt like your lies would forge me into the *bat **** crazy ***** you christened me but what i felt in your booze-stained breath amaretto-sweet words ice-diluted eyes was i am no battered wife
i am no laying next to you in bed at 30 with kids i couldn't convince myself to want and bruises that fit your fingers on my ribs. i'll take my tuesday tequila and too-loud laughs, my scrounging for quarters for just one more cup of coffee over your stability smirks.
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 5:41 PM UTC
The cab moved quietly
Beneath the street lamps
Pleather seats: torn, faded
There we sat, silent- content.
The driver, a portly man, hacked
Struggling, his breathing deepened
Panting, gasping to regain regularity
Quickly, his breath filled the
Confined, litter-shrouded,
Van with the stench of
Cheap cigar smoke
We arrived at her home
The driver approached slowly
Carefully avoiding the icy snow
Banked earlier by the cities plows
Sliding the van door open I step out
Still holding her hand, the night air
Enters my lungs, sobering me
Just for that brief instant
Hastily, she leans in
Without hesitation, I meet her
Ambitious advance, reciprocating
The kiss is brief; I’m no longer cold
Her lips are warm and soft against mine
Retreating, she smiles. I gently brush her hair
Behind her ear unveiling a dark brown eye
My glazed, drunk, stare meet hers
Her grin, now beginning to fade
She looks down in confusion
I sense the cab driver behind me
Growing impatient he lights a cigar
Before turning away she whispers night
Her hand lets go of mine; our fingers part
Complacent, tomorrow she will return to him
Revisiting that feigned, simulated, infatuation
The kind they falsely advertised as ‘love’
Standing alone, I’m cold once more
Keying in, she doesn’t look back
Reaching into my pocket
Scrounging for what cash is left
To the cab, I surrender my last five dollars
This pays just enough to get me where I stand
Dissatisfied with his tip, the driver departs cursing
Unsure what to make of the evening, I begin my walk
Now, not so sobering, the night air dries my throat
The chilled breeze that once blushed her cheeks
Now stings my nose, ears, and finger tips
Alone, I continue west- home
Cold, I have miles ahead
Spirit torn in twain
I walk them.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 10:03 PM UTC
I am an aristocrat.
The kind that molds and seams sentences,
one word upon another as if they were ancient incantations
taught to the younglings of Native American tribes. Generations upon generations.
I’m well spoken.
Can’t you tell? The way I’ve found that happy medium between the whimper and the whine?
I won’t be a bother. No, no, if you want me to kneel for you, I’m the frayed ends of your welcome rug. Sing you a song?
I am your mobile radio.
Tap my dials, I’ll make you squeal
with delight in the evening light.
Tip, turn
She was an American girl.
You yell, you scream.
I’m a sweet talker.
I’ll make you slit your eyes with pretend apprehension and the slightest, least perceptible grin I’ve ever witnessed performed by a member of humankind.
Oh, you know I’m never lonely.
Never have I spent minutes in the corner
scrounging for the few innocent nickels I’ve left to
maneuver claws and
obtain my purity.
No, my pockets are full.
Full of falling stars.
And not even just my front ones. I’ve got so many that it’s starting to affect my strut so people notice and congratulate me on my confident and masculine demeanor.
I was told to save them for a rainy day.
But I’m rain repellant.
That billowing storm wouldn’t dare approach me.
There is a drought,
and it’s deliberate.
Here, have a few of my stars.
I’m a real winner, and I’m living it large.
Touch me, I’m golden.
I am a fighter.
I am a winner.
So long, reflection, I’m off to woo the world.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
Desert and mountains merge into brown haze
in my recollection of those days.
The smell of gunpowder or paupers' fires
could ignite a conflagration of memories
if I would not extinguish them
which I do.
But one burns ever clear, even in the fickle fog of memory
—the mongrel and her pups
scrounging for scraps around our camp
and the Afghan village below.
We watched them in their scavenging and their play
until one crystal blue and frigid day
when Randy captured the runt of the bunch
and fed her some of his meager lunch,
and placed her inside his jacket
where she slipped into rabbit chasing sleep
and did not make a peep
until I heard her whimper
as the bullet that sliced through her gut
lodged itself in Randy’s young heart.
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 6:22 PM UTC
[[I think this is the second half of the first one I found scrounging. I split them up into two cause they sound better that way. I still didn't change a word.]]
[[[I wrote the bold part]]]
**Wondering
What I left behind
Sitting
On my life unkind
********
Cause the man's upset
Sitting
On a percocet**
Coffee and cigarettes don't do it for me anymore
I'm shooting up on life
And it's unbelievable
I can't control the way I feel
About this urge to take the pills
They **** the pain and sorrow of your lies
**Splitting!
Headache, you can't take the wait
Urging!
To wait, swallow your pains one day
Knowing!
you hate yourself and what you make**
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 1:49 PM UTC