"splotched" poems
Pinto?
No, not the wild-spirited, color-splotched mare
with mane streaming like flames-thrown
behind in the wind
Taking desert inclines
with scuffing hooves on rock
catching her balance in mesquite
curbing?
The sage, dust
All
that nature throws in its pathway to knowledge
toward treachery of crosswalks?
“P-l-e-a-s-e don't slow down!
Stop signs--?
”No!
Just keep going!
Don't slow down now!”
“They'll hear us coming
3 blocks away!”
Pinto?
Clogged carburetor--?
No one much-mentioned
rear-end inferno reputation??
A mere twinge in my signature
Woman-without-a-clue
“Hey, it runs, right?
Gets where we're goin'?”
Kids duck in back seat
so as not to be seen
In the cloud of smoke
We make our approach
Hiss Spitter, Belch, Pop
and--
BANG!
--Like a gunshot
Kids take cover
on street, in backseat
duck down
so not to be noticed...
“Oh Ma!
MA!!!
Not right here!
Farther down!”
...so not to be seen
...by friends that matter...
in this ride
from hell!
Backfiring Beast--
“Friends”
skitter away
from what will emerge from the smoke and fumes
of high-risk-situation
Kids spill out through jammed door
to unexpected accolades
onto equality's curb
of laughter
Public school's
wake of exhaust and relief
I drive mercifully away
Start of another school day
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 1:11 PM UTC
i woke with a **** and
a windpipe full of butterflies, so i
swallowed them down to my chest
my stomach and below and
it was then that i realized
they weren't butterflies
but backward flies
that turn to maggots and
eat dead things
so it was then that i realized
i was dead, in between that
chasing-my-breath consciousness and
sepia splotched dream
which featured my favorite
human being
waking me, winding me
up...
hey saige, come on, so i
unlocked my eyes
even though i knew it was my
little brother
all along...
bright
cobwebbed windows at my
feet and
brighter fringe above me
brushing my forehead, like fingers
he leaned
over me, nudged me
hugged me, come on
saige...
i began to rise, which is why
he stopped me, that's when he
kissed me, and that's when i
forgave him
because i knew it was
an accident
except for, that was when
he did it
again...
my lips inside his, and
i kept my eyes
open
kept telling myself to
just kiss back, since we'd
already ruined everything, because
that was all he
wanted
because maybe
we could go back, maybe we'd still be
inseparable if
i hadn't screamed, enough!
maybe nightmares
are second chances at
being better
best friends...
i was torn
worn threadbare and i felt it
in every fiber of me
lying there, but i couldn't
pull away and i've
never wished to hurt him, so i
couldn't push, either
just clamped my eyes
shut, as he did the same
with his mouth...
and that was when
i woke
without a soul nor a shame
save for the maggots
in my veins
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 2:53 PM UTC
It was an unexpected travesty
While I sipped on my Paris tea
Black and swirling in the creamy cup
The melancholy inside wasn’t made up
The touches shared never to be replayed
A pen left wordless on the splotched page
The story of us dwindled and ended
I’ll yearn the soul I lost and befriended
It stains the wanderings in my heart
Restless longing never to depart
Will she look at you the way I did too
Or with her smile is your gaze anew
Amongst any spoken tendril I have to say
You’ll ignore it regardless, keep it at bay
No matter wherever I beg and try
Forever I’ll be pinned as the bad guy
Your friends affirm it without any doubt
The words you spill attract gallons of clout
And even with a vine of knowledge to prove
They’d pry and spy ‘til nothing’s left to prune
Apr 16, 2021
Apr 16, 2021 at 11:14 PM UTC
On Loss
We’re always losing something.
Seconds, days take some french exit.
Time quietly shuffles out the back door.
Doesn’t even say goodbye.
Once we realize
our moments are gone,
we want them back. Maybe we can replay
them and take a second look, but the record skips and the tape jumps
and the film is splotched and some teenager spilt
wine all over the keyboard
long ago;
So we jump
from memory to memory like patchwork
realizing we don’t even remember the important things.
We don’t even know why we thought what we thought.
We can’t even explain ourselves to ourselves.
Our consciousness can’t muddle through it’s own muck;
our mind doesn’t even know how the mind works.
It’s not just an existential crisis.
We lose the small things, too. We lose cellphones.
Wallets. Innocence. Virtue. We pass some
tests, we fail some tests, we replace and are replaced
we stop loving and are no longer loved,
but eventually, bigger things. Friends. Family. Lovers.
Ourselves. Our potential.
Eventually, we slip away from the most important thing.
I’ve heard a bit about death. It’s a lot like sleep. You don’t even know it’s happening.
It’s a lot like
slipping into the unconscious;
it’s a lot like putting your head down; you don’t thrash about. You see the holy gates,
maybe. Maybe you’re pulled from your body
like a handkerchief. Maybe you don’t lose anything;
maybe you get found.
If this is melancholy, I’m sorry. I’m allowed to be melancholy. Likewise, you’re are allowed to be melancholy.
You are allowed to question-
you are allowed to dance, sing, shout, cry
know, love, forget;
You are allowed to lose. You are allowed to remember. What’s stopping you?
Who’s holding you back? No floodgates; you aren’t a flood.
There’s no sweeping metaphor; no sweeping generalization. You aren’t
a path, you aren’t constrained, chained bound or gagged;
confess if you must;
drink wine if you have too;
do some metaphysical exercise; transport your mind to some realm
explode, manifest, conquer,
Prepare to lose it all. Or let it happen. It’s a choice.
If I could, I’d help you through your heartbreak. Guide you through
it all,
make you smile. Make you happy.
But I keep losing things.
I keep playing all the songs I used to enjoy.
I keep reading all the things that used to make me happy.
Moments come and go, hours gently float away
Night will wash the palate clean, clear-coat the day;
I will love, and I will hate;
I will sing, and I will dance
I will grieve, and celebrate
I will shout, and by some chance,
I cease to be.
I will not be me.
I will go somewhere;
a dark room.
Somewhere where I am safe.
Nowhere at all.
Somewhere, sometime, somehow, a vauge
mirror you cannot avoid
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 10:59 AM UTC
Gene Wilder's ***** Wonka* once asked me
to step into a world
of pure imagination
and I danced to his voice
of sugary imperfections.
The swelling strings drizzled
on top falsetto inflections
captured me childishly
with candy-coated attentions
But even the finest chocolate melts,
and I learned to let purity be
pushed by treacly lyrics
or stern midgets secure
in their fudge-topped zealotry.
It sifts too pretty for me,
powdering my grown-up
infatuations with petty
wants, getting a little messy
What I crave instead's stained-glass contraptions
to propel me past the stretches
of biblical proportion
where light and dark don't mix.
I'm no Idiot, good-hearted
in the veins of Fyodor
or Akira, and I can't see
beyond the pure tedium
of a blurredly driven snow
I like my mental drifts grime-choked and splotched
with some savory do
dropped in to dissolve flossy
confections to a salted soup
of imagined impurity.
May 20, 2010
May 20, 2010 at 6:08 PM UTC
Loneliness is pages splayed across the bed
It is clutching the empty space beside me
Writhing in agony, knowing very well
You're not there
Loneliness is having my blood run cold,
My feet solidly planted to the ground
Every time I hear the unfamiliar ring
Of my (prosaic) name
Loneliness is basking in the sweet but transient
Moments of companionship, when your supple
Lips brush mine (and sparks flit down my back)
Knowing they will soon be relics
Loneliness is donning heavy, splotched clothes
Sodden from last night's tears and broken memories
It is having your mind plagued with yesterday
Loneliness decays your today
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 1:51 AM UTC
That double crescent moon bite mark
That Thom made on my arm
To show me he was, *****
Those five purple fingerprints
That Riley left, to remind me
My pants? Gone last night.
That weird, mysterious oval
On the inside of my thigh.
...Was that Kelsey or Nyssa?
That tiny yellow mark that splotched my eyebrow
From when I ran into a telephone pole
—completely sober.
Tyler still mocks me about that.
That blood red under-eye
That made me realize
We all get hit.
That Texas-shaped purple-to-yellow transition
That screamed to me,
We all heal.
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 1:14 AM UTC
Oldest thing I ever did see,
Skin a mountain range of
Crumpled/crinkled crepe paper
Peaking in altitudinous pouches
Under his eyes, dragging with
Their weight dewlapp jowls
Down to a waddling,
Flabby neck, eyes camouflaged
Under light, fuzzy swatches of cotton,
Mouth slack and vacant, dribbling.
Hobbling with a stoop, knees bowed,
Back arched at an angle, a
Tilted arrow. He tottered over to me,
Inches, feet, miles, years too young,
Smiled brightly to reveal an empty,
Gummy mouth rimmed with
Birthday cake, pallid arms
Outstretched, head splotched with
A thin, wispy cloud of hair,
Half-full and forgotten baby’s bottle
On the carpet behind him.
How quickly they do grow.
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 12:18 AM UTC
He is an
erroneous man
with a soul splotched
in every color
whose death
displays
his ultimate
moral
perfection.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 1:40 AM UTC
In the shadows of the walls
where laughter once reverberated
as a symphony of gleeful bliss,
intonational inclines arise in the dark
as dancing phantoms haunt
the smirking silence which dissipates
from the splotched, upended floorboards,
while midnight footprints breathlessly creak,
cradling the demonizing affirmations whispered,
the very ones I knew would never become true.
We stood by, powerlessly spectating
as the love we once shared
gasped for air, red in the face,
its gushing carotid bulging in desperation,
four lungs incinerating themselves
with imminent anticipation
of the death gleaming
just over the horizon,
its violet hues juxtaposing
with the glimmering night skies
of faded constellations comprising the celestial
as moonlit silhouettes waltzed across the water,
a bright cerulean rippling in our presence,
the genesis of a journey unforeseen.
Brutal acceptance rains from my eyes,
a rumbling river that reigns supreme
over the rounded stones stacked high
as a towering dam of branches and rubble,
leftover waste long forgotten and forlorn;
hometown fantasies of childhood memories
linger longer than our lost loyalty,
liberating me from the rusted chains
you'd stapled into my brittle bones,
a leash tied tightly around my throat
to **** me from my courageous caution
back into the splintered wheel
dictating our selfish agendas,
empty promises of dilapidated affirmations
now turned weary and worn
with this newfound sense of reflection,
a dichotomy depicting time's own passage,
the consequence of a metamorphic resolution
of open wounds blossoming into eroded scars.
Futuristic visions of lesions now mended
seamlessly fuse with renewed self-reception,
your broken promises stitched with the threads
ripped from the capillaries comprising my core,
blood-stained carpet of scarlet and crimson
fading into an aged and weathered maroon,
never truly waning in its acquainted pigment
yet blossoming into a stained fabric
portraying the promises of the past,
of decayed ruins now industriously erected
into a radiant utopia of gallant, rubious valor,
the final product of an unyielding resolve
to have our story rewritten, our own steadfast evolution.
Jan 6, 2024
Jan 6, 2024 at 6:24 PM UTC
Aging arms splotched with purple and red
signs of tangling with jagged dead branches
among white pines along the back of the yard
reach for a copy of Ted Kooser's _Flying at Night_.
Pages flip for a stop here and there
to read _Sunset_, _Carp_ and _Spring Plowing_
Envy swells inside him with the realization
that he will never write such fine poems
which prompt memories of childhood adventures
living rural among tiger lilies blooming in meadows,
newborn calves teetering toward first steps,
and freshly spread manure capturing the scent of fall air.
His fingers still grimy from early morning planting
place Kooser's volume carefully beside his empty coffee cup
content that he is blessed to have discovered it
that day hiding next to classic tomes by Shakespeare and Whitman.
He rises to tackle digging potholes for double begonias
to decorate his yard and and to dream of pages unread.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
baby butch in the bathroom, splotched with shaving cream
using dad's razor to shave what's barely even there on their jaw
baby butch in the bathroom, shirt off and defiant
(though alone who's there to see it)
(them that's who)
washing his feet and their armpits and her face
baby butch on the sidewalk, leather jacket wrapped around them/him, internal bravado daring everyone
not to look at him/them
baby butch in the hallway at school, laughing loud and pitching voice low
no one can know
but why not act how you want to
baby butch in the classroom, slouching in their seat, knees braced against opposite legs of the desk
carefully lazy
legs so tense
baby butch on the internet
finally telling
saying CALL ME THIS CALL ME THEY CALL ME HE
AND THEN CALL ME YOURS
she did. he is.
it's too soon. but he is.
baby butch in the background, scrawling out words
they. he. xavier. baby butch. king ****
alive.
alive.
alive and living.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 10:59 PM UTC
In the library,
the woman walks,
cane in hand,
bundled in a red coat,
green scarf over her shoulders,
her husband beside her,
in his slate coat and cap,
a checkered scarf
tied at his neck.
She pushes her white hair off
her forehead and peers up
at the paintings on the wall,
splotched and messy and bright,
the work of elementary students.
Paused at the paintings
they think of times when
they were that young too,
under the open sky--
her leaving clothes on the line
him chasing his dog back home.
They didn’t know each other then,
or maybe they did.
The details slip away
like summer into fall.
It doesn’t matter now,
but there was a time when she
held his hand on their walks
instead of a cane.
Oh, the watercolors
look like
ones Dan and Janie made,
Oh Dan,
he’d said he’d call,
or did Janie?
They can’t remember and think
of disintegrating paper
and blue drips on the table.
Instead, they finish their stroll
and both agree--
Lovely, wasn’t it?
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 10:55 PM UTC
i woke up next to you again,
red wine lips
slightly parted,
a contented sigh
escaping out
of crushed cherries.
the night is still young,
you had said,
a lopsided grin
crawling its way
to your sinful mouth
speaking in dead languages.
( do not lie to me, darling )
i woke up next to you again,
eyebrows furrowed,
small hands traveled to mine,
soft whilst never unwavering.
you begged me to stay,
never letting go of the
edges of my shirt.
insides stirred,
i watched you in awe
as you pat the spot
next to you.
( just this once, i let you do as you please )
i woke up next to you again,
gaze already set
on my visage.
a lazy smile and a kiss
greeting me.
this was love,
you had thought
but you were
wrong.
( tonight will be the last, mi amor)
i woke up next to you again,
clothes tattered and torn,
lifeless eyes greeting me,
sheets splotched
with regret and blood.
grief and love
are no such thing.
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 6:39 AM UTC
Aging arms
splotched with purple and red
signs of tangling
with jagged dead branches
reach for a copy
of Ted Kooser's *
Flying at Night_
.
Pages flip
for a stop here and there
to read _Sunset_, _
Carp_ and _Spring Plowing
Envy swells inside him
with the realization
that he will never
write such fine poems
about memories
of childhood adventures
Like Kooser
he was reared
living rural
among tiger lilies
blooming in meadows,
amid newborn calves
teetering toward first steps,
and around
freshly spread manure
capturing the scent of fall air
His fingers still grimy
from early morning planting
place the volume
carefully beside
his empty coffee cup
content that he is blessed
to have discovered Kooser's work
He rises to tackle
digging potholes
for double begonias
to decorate his yard
and to dream
his dream
of pages unread.
and pages unwritten.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
I sit beside you,
two sets of eyes glued to a splotched canvas before us.
I in the driver’s seat,
you in your captain’s chair.
I’m asking all these questions, but,
are you really there? I worry
when I look at you, and the
shock is painted on my face.
Others pass me under the moonlight and
tell me to leave this place.
They say, “you better get outta here, and get
while the getting is good.
This job will turn you inside out
and make you misunderstood.”
I sit beside you,
two sets of eyes glued to the canvas, as if it will restore us.
A cassette tape is forced through my brain,
the night’s events replayed.
My finger tap upon the glass,
and your hair is frayed.
Your figure in the captain’s chair,
with skin as cold as tin.
Which one of these got to your bones,
which one did you in?
Do you remember sights and sounds,
you wish you could forget?
Is that look upon your eye,
one of anger or regret?
Trauma is etched into your skin
like cracks on a weary canyon rock.
I need to know how you turned to you
if only you could talk.
I sit beside you.
Our eyes are glued to the splotched canvas, that which holds nothing
for us.
Sep 27, 2020
Sep 27, 2020 at 7:08 PM UTC
Jenny and Jimmy were the best of friends
spending long days together that would seem to never end
picking up sticks and swinging on trees
blowing dandelion flowers in the warm summer breeze
now jenny was a beauty dressed in little boy’s clothes
with her pony tail lose an' freckles splotched on her nose
and she couldn’t give a hoot what those other girls’d say
cause she liked to be with Jimmy and the games that he played
now Jimmy wasn’t smart, but he knowed what he loved:
skippin' rocks, catchin' frogs, and his baseball glove
and that silly freckled girl that would always hang around
the most pretty little flower that he ever had found
they would lie in the grass, staring up at the sky
hoping life would never change, as the world passed by
they would always have each other and their lush green wood
with the birdies and the trees and everything that was good
but the winter was a’comin and the kids went inside
and the flowers and grass and the leaves all died
and a perfect white snow covered up all the fun
and it silenced all the laughter and it froze up the sun
so they sat and they waited for what seemed like years
and so Jimmy got angry and Jenny found tears
and even as they hoped and they cried and they prayed
the winter wasn’t going, it had come along to stay
so then Jimmy got up and he put his boots on
and Jenny got her gloves and her scarf from her mom
they each waved goodbye to their nice warm home
and they set off in the night in the deep cold snow
the ice was holding tight to every step they would take
and the wind was blowing hard and it made their bodies shake
but they kept moving forward cause they knew they had to be
in the arms of each other beneath the big oak tree
Jenny saw him first as she came over the hill
and she ran so fast she forgot about the chill
and Jimmy was amazed as a smile found his face
as he lifted Jenny up in a strong warm embrace
and as the two of them smiled and they hugged and they swayed
the winter and the ice began to slowly melt away
and the two stayed together up until the very end
because Jenny and Jimmy were the best of friends.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 2:04 AM UTC
blues man, man of soul,
writhing in my forearms.
a heart too calloused to pump,
eyes too full, fading to chalk.
thin wooden fingers, whining joints,
sagging biceps splotched with bleach,
a broom mustache solid in sweat.
it hurts, blues man, to feel you fade.
your sax bleat against the sidewalk,
the dry reed snapping on impact.
your canned bank spilling nickels into the storm drain.
i felt your shattered muscles shiver against my chest,
your spine spasming back and forth, pounding against your lungs,
blocked by all the **** you’ve eaten in your seven or so decades.
your shoulders sagged and your chin wilted to your wheezing heart.
i laid you down against the wall of Mother’s and searched for a payphone.
looking back, you seemed like an old black Atlas,
i stuck a few quarters in and yelled at an answering machine for four infinite minutes.
looking back, i saw people looking anywhere but your face,
dropping change in your saxophone case.
your fingertips stopped shaking,
and with it, my old earth sank into space,
and you ****** me into a new one.
it hurts here, blues man, man of soul.
it hurts here, and everyone’s got a rasp in their voice.
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 11:18 PM UTC
TOMATO CHASE
Now....
Out of season
They're reddish
Uniform in size & shape
Firm
And flavorless
In season
They're RED
All sizes and shapes
Firm, soft, some just right
And flavorful
Yesteryears
They were magic
Like the transformation of a caterpiller
The little yellow flower
Gives way to the tiny green marble
Stalk n stems grow bigger
Marbles grow larger
The green fuzzy rough stems
The scent
That wonderful smell
So unique to the tomato plant
They turn green to red
Some even get incubated on a sunny sill
When it's time
Knife reveals seeds and red splotched juice
And the TASTE
A taste that fades with our age
That TASTE that we chase every summer
Close
But never a ringer
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 10:23 AM UTC
I hid behind the Buddleia bushes,
crouched in pools of
broken butterfly wings,
and bright feathers.
Between gaps in the greens
I saw them laughing,
jokes floating from
their mouths.
Rain started falling
pools rose
higher,
hair turned to string
cheeks were on
fire,
heartbeat burned,
my head
turned
away.
He kissed her forehead
wiped damp from her eyes,
traced light on her face
light from the skies.
Afterwards I walked
home under
rainclouds,
rainbows,
and rain.
dotted in sorrow
splotched with pain.
And let him pick me up
close to him,
again .
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 11:22 PM UTC
She was a gamine,
an urchin and a recluse.
Tattered and waifish,
scrounging for some small morsel underneath a city bus.
Tarnished,
a lot like brass that's been exposed to water;
she's splotched.
Even whilst disenfranchised,
she carries some valiance hidden beneath her turncoat.
There is beauty in the loose pages she's giving to the wind.
She is,
and will forever be,
floating in the updraft of a sidewalk vent.
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 7:58 AM UTC
I remember the drive,
Across those
Watercolor splotched
State lines,
Smears of time passed fast,
Downpours covered,
Played a symphony
Above our heads,
Gushed down on roadways,
We are truly powerless.
Arrived safely,
Eyed signs like a game,
Counted down the miles,
Sweet freedom
And comfort,
I reached a destination
To call,
“Home.”
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 2:50 PM UTC
When his fingers trace my skin
It will be a foreign invasion
Of the territory you made
A traitor
Waltzing on enemy lines
I'll look for you
In the contours of a strangers smiles
Or behind his fingertips
Waiting for just a glimpse
Of your light
To seep from someone else's skin
For pieces of you to surface
Rise like blood
A purple splotched
I love you
Signed with
I'm yours
I'll hold my breath forever
but you won't ever come
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 6:16 PM UTC
The day starts off bitter and dark
Splattered and splotched with watermarks
From tears of us forced to watch
Battle cause against battle cause
Shoulders flaked in hatreds frost
Rolling rocks collect no moss
Foes and friends this war has cost
Who could have thunk who would have thought
A world like this would take top billing
A time like this would come of age
Raising fists in fits of rage
Here's the pauper where's the sage
Keeping truth locked in a cage
Same old look different name
Nothing's changed it's all the same
Unknown ghosts make us afraid
Set the date cut the cake
A world like this is quite revealing
Unless you find you like the lies
Being spewed out on all sides
From the upper left to the lower right
As we feed the hand that bites
It's a case of do or die
Whatever it takes to win the fight
Sign of the times I me mine
Raise your hand and close your eyes
In this world of truth concealing
They're keeping score behind closed doors
Where they have mine and they have yours
Where the disease thinks it's the cure
And only peace can come through war
If that's not enough there's more in store
Times are rotten to the core
Days like these are hard to ignore
Once we've opened Pandora's door
A world like this is hard in its dealings
A world like this is primed for stealing
A world like this has lost all meaning
A world like this is in it's keeping
A world like this...
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 11:14 AM UTC
I reckon every day is another page, another chapter to the storybook of your life. Some people have every sheet numbered in neat chronological order or categorised according to A-Z, while others are blank pages waiting to be filled, waiting for words to come. Occasionally there are stories that have been left unfinished, tragic end or dire fate, and there are those that end in the quiet melody of unsung heroes.
Of all the life stories in the world, mine is fragile at the spine, paper thin and translucent. The ink is splashed across several pages, words intelligible and smudged with tears; blood stains dotting the edges. There are countless tales that lurk beneath the binding, and even more lives entwined with mine. You, for instance, pressed thorns between the pages of the book that is my life, leaving flowers wilting amongst the splotched ink words and tears in the paper. It is funny, because only when you look back do you realise that nothing would ever be the same if you didn’t exist.
I am older now, the accompaniment to the author that is destiny and fate, overseeing the paths I am to take, the people I still have yet to meet, the places I will go. There is no promise of calm ahead, and with every recollection there are flashes of hurt and pain, of times when my heart was torn apart at the seams, shattered beyond recognition. Despite this I continue on, the naive hope that things will get better and that I will recover, lingers in the core of my soul; sparking a new hope down to the ends of my fingertips.
And while page after page is filled with cutouts and photographs of the memories I have had, none will ever shine as bright as you.
-
"When you’re here it’s like the sunrise, and when you leave it’s like the sunset."
(A.H.Z)
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 6:46 AM UTC