"supermarkets" poems
twice by god's accidental interference,
our crash vehicles, super sized shopping carts,
connect, we are manger-penalized for unnecessary roughness
and disturbing the supermarkets peace
what better way to judge character than to examine
a single persons shopping cart contents?
hers,
all organic, milk, heirloom tomatoes, even the Chardonnay,
grown upon the farms of the island and vineyards on
the forks that shelter the isle from the ravages of the Atlantic
mine,
Hebrew National franks, yellow mustard,
very classy brioche buns, a six pack of Corona Light,
and funny colored, funny looking, rusted russet potato chips
with a tremulous smile, and an overly loud, derisive sniff,
pronounces me dead man walking sooner than later,
to which, I respond,
then, teach me, where shall we dine tonight?
later that night,
after a thousand kisses of her fluttering eyelashes,
she props herself upon an elbow and
in a tone sincere and caring,
extracts from the poet promises of
natural exclusivity
from now on, healthy, natural only, organic and pure,
from the soul soil of our shared habitat
her suntan skin, garden-digging hand, I clasp,
softly climbing on top of her,
announce with total genuine sincerity and solemnity;
I swear it, from now on, all my loving will be sourced locally
rewarded with a laugh and a gentle but hard enough,
garden to table (with her free hand), head smacking,
I noting nod, good naturedly
that both the laugh and smack,
as well,
*sourced locally,
sourced lovingly,*
which then seeded
this new only love jointly authored poem,
planted in our mingling blossoming crashing
bodies
5/29/17 i
12:43pm
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
Orange peel Thursdays and the Velcro shoes
Of children hordes
Who spider up Alice on toadstools in Central Park
Dusted psilocybin shoots my eyes through
With the clarity of ice and sliced mushroom
Steeping in stomach acid before finding blood
The kids are tripping like madmen or halloween candy
Like its time to release and give up to the nonsense
And let your young self congeal to a saccharine sludge
I don’t stroll in the park to keep my mind sharp
I’m here because it’s a riot
My head can throb to the jittery birds
And the blasts of carsong
It’s the right kind of rhythm to walk to
** ** **
Ketamine days and the lolling slums
To make sure the insane stay insane
And the hobos are washed with spit from the clouds
And the subway exhaust always hangs in our hair
And the old Coney Island burns again and twice more
We don’t pretend to understand what we see
In subway grates thirty feet wide
Like the earth punching out of work for a bit
Opening to you her *** belly
So you can check out the strips of metal inside
Before she slurps you down and with an esophageal squeeze
Shoots you through the turnstiles
The train squeals and grinds down our eyes
With thoughts as slow as ketamine
Makes room for schizophrenia in a conversation
We’re listening to ‘til sundown
** ** **
Years full of Brooklyn and the assorted pills
Makes offal fit for punks in name brand shoes
Squared off with police in the park
Being beaten for the fun of being beaten
Peacoat locals pass the days in supermarkets
And you grow up to the loony mumble
Of the woman who knows the boat
Moored at the end of the street
Mansion of the stray cat colony
You help her with her daily chore to feed them
Tabbies popping the pills of the homeless
And puking in tandem all over their house
Living off generous dying folk
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 4:02 PM UTC
Patterned dots, existence connects
An anther to a stigma, reproduction
The pollen withers, pollution subsides
Colonies of bees vanish in the wind
Toxic genetic food wins in binge
Mother earth cries in pain, an ail
Food chains and supplies cut short
Globalised mass production of poison
Supermarkets stocking “all season”
Consumerism monopolies swell
The environment abused and misused
Plastic bottles displaced, a chemical sludge
The haunted “great pacific garbage patch”
Littered garbage, debris and chemical sludge
Humanity displaced, dissociated and divided
Ruining sea waters , floating landfill fueled
Probability of heightened population
Global panics, mimicked maniacs
Reductions of resources to feed all
Unsustainable long windy farms
Big roads, buried bills, stingy reality
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 6:43 PM UTC
this is for the Dreamers, Lovers, and Surgeons
for the Hopeless Stargazer who immortalized his Subject with one hundred and eight sets of fourteen lines in iambic pentameter
for ***** tight clad teenage boys who envied frisky fleas, struggling to make holy ungodly passions with cheap arguments and metaphysical pick up lines
for Disillusioned City Dwellers, who, wandering lonely as clouds, stopped to quietly reflect upon wind-beaten moss-covered crags, and heard God’s whisper thunder from petals and blades of grass
this is for the Dreamers, Lovers, and Surgeons
for Bespectacled Slave Drivers who submersed idle minds in anthologies, forcing them to **** neon yellow on dreams deferred and rivers; slicing and dicing Grecian urns with red ball point pens; bruising and battering, in blue ball point, roads not taken; scalding supermarkets in California with pyroclastic flows of graphite
for those pushing to tear apart lines and letters, reconstructing ,deconstructing, agonizing, imaginizing, bullshitting, and brooding on to crisp white sheets in times new roman twelve point font
for the Monsters and Lollipops that exist in the millimeters between a skull and a brain
this is for the Dreamers, Lovers, and Surgeons slumbering beneath Restless Leaves Under the Moon
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 10:39 AM UTC
Christmas countdown has begun and family members are on the run
Looking for the bargains everywhere, and how they get it they don’t care.
All the retailers have put up their displays
As they prepare for Christmas day.
Grocery stores and supermarkets with their specials on the floor
And in every aisle there are treats galore.
Turkeys and hams, candied yams too- all the treats just for you.
Department stores and shopping malls- filled with shoppers wall to wall.
The children are in total awe as they look from store to store.
And every new item that’s on TV. In the stores for them to see.
Yes! The Christmas countdown has begun. And the children
Are preparing for the fun, from bicycles and dolls and all the rest
Knowing they’ve gotten all the best.
Look around; look around, the Christmas spirit is all around.
MERY CHRISTMAS TO ONE AND ALL, THIS IS THE SEASON TO HAVE A BALL!
©L.RAMS 112214
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
here, cows give up their milk
a small island economy
works well
the place I was born
and mother breast fed
farmers are suffering
suffering so much
from the pathetic price
supermarkets pay for milk
now on the national news
farmers are walking their cows
through the isles of supermarkets
and just maybe
maybe
fairness will win
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC
Tell me
That gun that you're so proud of
Why does it tremble so much?
Is your hand following your unstable mind?
Is that the same hand that holds your child's?
Your emotions
Fragile enough to be crushed with a hug
Insecure enough to attack a compliment
Corrupt enough to endlessly reload on lies and deceit
Are those the same emotions you shoot into your wife at night?
Your bullets roar so loudly
What voices are you trying to drown out?
Your heartbeat clanks at the speed of the fallen shells
What are you so afraid of?
A man armed and ready to go off at any moment like you?
Tell me
What can you manage to defeat?
With those trembling hands
Uncertain of what to take aim at
You shoot down anything that moves
Uncertain of where the trigger is
You pull at anything you can reach
Uncertain of how much enemies are left
You forever stay in the trenches
I now know that when you bow your head at church that it's not for prayer
Then hoping to nullify your senseless you refuse to leave the battlefield
And take no-mans-land everywhere you go
You wear your bulletproof vest and rifle to the supermarkets, schools, offices, dinner tables, churches, and funerals
Forever firing
Forever charging
Forever defending
Forever fighting
Yourself.
Nov 22, 2020
Nov 22, 2020 at 8:28 AM UTC
ugly men on the way back from work
watch the summer dress and the small body within
walk with the breeze down the steps,
down from the station while
the trains pull away,
their carriages carrying the sea and the low-tide estuaries'
breath within them
and they watch the dress and the body and the breeze
cross the road into
the sun swallowed supermarkets
and the ugly men walk home
beneath retired balconies
and the slow
beginnings of evenings.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 12:08 PM UTC
I often wonder if I would ever run into you.
If I do, how would it play out?
So, I imagine a scenario where Iam shopping at a supermarket, walking down the aisle, pushing my cart,
looking for some mundane little thing and there you will be,
next to the cereal aisle, holding your favorite brand of cereal.
What would we do?
Will one of us lean in for a hug,
smile awkwardly at each other or
behave like strangers?
Would we exchange numbers,
With a promise to catch up soon or do
the most natural thing in the world-
go to the nearest cafe or pub and
have coffee or a drink or two together.
Share our stories, wish each other well and part as friends.
I hope that's what we'd do.
I would love to walk down that aisle with you.
I look for you in every supermarket in the world, I step into.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 10:04 PM UTC
Negligible morsel of biomass
my fat belly, formerly abs
insignificant yet it occupies me
hourly while bored or hungry.
Fat is what? a picture
of despair, giving up caring
or man out of balance, other
side of the world's starving
mass, case of the soul's malnutrition
industrial agriculture, television
supermarkets, vacations, hydrocarbons
and the grid. Electricity, urban
traffic jams, photons at final
rest. Sugars synthesized, abundant
plastics to carry them home in.
Into your house and into your mirror.
Memorizing the periodic table
and learning the calculus makes one
no thinner. Walking the mountain
in heat and cold and rain, alone
or in fire crews should inhibit.
And a healthy fear of death. A laugh
a day at *** and pain and fate
which renews the biomass I hate.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 10:52 AM UTC
Earthy mottled brown,
Pomme de terre
The humble spud,
When not covered in mud;
Chipped, boiled or mashed,
Steamed roasted or hashed.
First the Incas of Peru,
Used them in a stew.
Now the tubers grown in space,
To further the human race.
Chopin, Mozart, and Vivaldi,
Can all be bought at Aldi.
(Other supermarkets are available.)
(More varieties are saleable.)
A versatile Maris Piper,
Couldn't be any riper,
When served perfectly baked.
© Nick Strong 2014
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
The streets today
were widow canyons,
wooed away, the normal traffic,
by something kin to black magic,
and so to supermarkets at five P.M.
emptied by a sorcerer's spell,
but I hear tell, on game days like this,
the tide will turn
as if the moon, by chance, had changed direction.
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 3:57 PM UTC
How are things going? I desperately want to ask
But now I remember how I called you that night crying and desperate
“Sorry dear, I have bigger priorities,” you mumbled nonchalantly in a tone that cut
I guess what was important to you was your short silver dress which you had to keep tugging at
And your layers of mascara which smeared in the heat and the sweat
Maybe you didn't feel like being responsible or putting up a fight
Didn't feel like talking in the pulsating strobe lights
Where you drank and danced and smoked,
Your hands around the masculine men with whom you hooked
I wonder if you still would have hung up if you knew I was crying for you.
And one year later you still haven’t changed
You’re out of school and awfully deranged
Lying at the side of the road in a drunken stupor,
Stinking of smoke and giggling hoarse
Your dress riding up mid-thigh and your heels strewn across the street
Ordering McDonald’s, planting fries in your friend’s garden throwing fits
Sitting in trolleys in supermarkets at 3 am in the morning screaming at the top of your lungs and I
Miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you.
If I ever saw you again I’d bury my face in your long raven hair and whisper how much you meant to me, once.
I’d stroke your whiter than white skin, touched and kissed by fifty other men
Bruised by the very people you call your friends
And I’d cry in your chest and tell you to come back
If all you’d do is swig down a bottle of beer
And not look my way, but cackle cruelly wailing dear
I would die more than a little inside
You stopped caring about anything that was supposed to matter,
Like being better than everyone and writing beautiful badass essays about saving the sharks
(And understanding everything I never understood about myself and laughing at the things I used to say and pinning my name with stars on your charts)
You forgot your dreams of wanting to travel and petting kangaroos, carving out something of yourself so they’d remember you for your passion
and loneliness is the only place at which you’re stationed.
Now all you’re doing is living monotonously, “the *** life” you call it, your dreams all burnt up in the intoxication of the hookah you pretend to love and dissolved in the alcohol you swallow now pulsing through your veins.
Come back.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
I taste death
in every food I eat
I see beauty
in every face I meet
It all once lived
before it died
One day maybe
nothing will need to die
for mankind to survive
I see beauty
in the face of every person I meet
The public world
of shopping malls
Supermarkets
Working's pall
Inside while primitive
fantasies
still reside
Rageful tides
Spiderwebs blowing down hillsides
Carrying on a private conversation
in a public gathering
"a little privy please"
There are no walls
in the outhouse
The outhouse is lined
with mirrors and windows
The rules are the rules
even for desire
tho sometimes we all do
a mashpit at the opera
Everything has a taste
Internal
External
make a mistake
it's back to the wild
Food for fodder
fodder for thought
Still seeing beauty
in every face I meet
Tasting death
in every food I eat
Makes water in
the desert
so so sweet.
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 10:00 AM UTC
Are these tears of blundering laughter
or heckles of contempt
that spirit on these haggard few
to rhapsodise our era’s curtain calls?
They who brought us mounting debt and conscientiousness
which seems only to be healed in the appeasing fluorescence
of 24-hour supermarkets and the purgatory
of weekends spent at home?
Such stifling, nervous coughs
are head as responses of
today’s domestic questionnaires
Gung-ho reformative advances
and calls to “pull up our socks”
Mixed with the state-sponsored fortune-telling
Rationed out to boys languishing on the dole.
Which All falsely transpires,
intimidatingly revealed as being
About as appealing as vacuum cleaners for the soul
aimed at the resolutely bored to tears.
Despite our fears
the sun will come streaming again
through fresh fir trees
which decorate contemplative, sheltered lanes.
These last, frostbitten years
seek replacement with halcyon days
in order to suspend dogmatic disbelief.
Let’s not get ahead of ourselves:
Pessimism is ****
Even in the most roaring of times
we remained despondent and calculated.
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 12:12 PM UTC
I was making a sandwich
for the customer with green eyes
when Amanda came in and said,
"look for the printed word."
I had no idea what it meant
but I continued making the man's
turkey pastrami on rye.
She left without buying her usual
pumpkin cookie and soy chai latte,
extra foam of course.
Was this some sort of riddle,
about how a raven
is like a writing desk?
I looked through the produce
hoping to find a scrap of crumpled
paper among the peaches.
Then to the juice bar, even
sifting through the pulp of
discarded apples and kale.
I asked the cooks in the back
if they had seen any odd words
around, but they said no.
The intercom howled "Thank you
for shopping at Jimbooooo's…Naturally!"
when it hit me. I rushed back
toward the sandwich bar and
inspected the guacamole.
And the seed of the avocado
sitting next to it read,
"Neon fruit supermarkets
attract a lonely Whitman."
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 11:44 AM UTC
This is Uganda
My motherland
My home that I love so much
Boom, boom, boom,boom
Another prominent leader has been shot dead
Who is it?
Abiriga, the yellow man
Panic here, panic there
Some arrests here and there
And that’s it
He is gone
And the killers too are nowhere to be seen
This is Uganda
Around that time, it’s party here and party there
Many of my brothers and sisters have come to the beginning of the end of their time in school and some totally done
The graduation has brought well-wishers, relatives, friends and family from different places
Happiness is all in the air
But for many, the excitement ends there
Because months and years after that, they are still hoping to find their first job and the hopes seem to be withering down and getting further like the sun setting at dusk
Some have chosen paths totally different from what they studied for
The professional doctor is now a trader
The one that studied engineering is now a farmer
This is Uganda
The neighbor’s dogs are feasting on meat, chicken bones or even the chicken itself and maybe some serious Dog food sold in supermarkets but they slept on empty stomachs the previous night,
The mother is the main breadwinner for the husband abandoned them
There is very thin hope for a meal the next day
Maybe a Good Samaritan will do a miracle
But it certainly is not going to be their most immediate neighbor
While kids from well-to-do families are picked from the gates of their parents’ homes to go to school and brought back later in the evening,
Somewhere in the same age range or slightly older has also woken up to start his/her day
With his/her old & ***** sack on the back, held by the neck, he traverses the whole village throughout the day in search for scrap metal, plastics and some metallic cans that ***** hopes to sell off and find a little something to buy some food and also enjoy some ‘luxuries’ like maybe buying a secondhand T-shirt/Dress
Imagine that!
This is Uganda
We pay for justice
Some pay to deny other justice
And that’s the way it is
A police officer will ask you for a bribe openly with no shame
And that’s the order of the day
Disguised as a small token for ‘Ka-soda’ or ‘Ka-lunch’
This is Uganda
Dec 11, 2019
Dec 11, 2019 at 10:43 AM UTC
I imagined we’d grow gray together
and take winter sun holidays
somewhere we could warm our bones
cut out coupons from newspapers
stacking up in a jam jar
next to the fruit bowl
you’d rent guidebooks out of the library
and I’d take evening classes
so that I could understand
black tied waiters
you’d find it cute and impressive
and you would hold my hand tightly
during take off
the plan was that we’d walk around
foreign supermarkets and guess
the contents of the cans
they’d be faded beach towels
and the sticky scent of tanning lotion
our antiquated skin would burn easily
if we didn't smother it
but I’m not sure it matters
anymore, fretting over factors
we already have tumors
growing like doubts in our chests
we have nurtured them,
tended to their hungers and thirst
until we have none of
our own
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 1:59 PM UTC
it comes
when you're reading one of those books
written by pseudo intellectuals buried
in their despondent lookout on life
comes when
They're writing on human's self-sabotaging nature,
when they're peeling
layers off and off, revealing the
truth of ourself like they're
gods,
Hermes the messenger, or angels, Michael,
bringing to us thoughts we'd never have grown organically
that's what they believe,
what they tell themselves as they prune their feathers with pride
as they impregnate you with the god honest truth
and how did you live before knowing this?
it's been with you all along, kicking and breathing and pushing
you just didn't know it, yet,
but now you can as
they preach their outlooks like it's a message that
changes everything, that your life will implode as your mind
wakes itself up -
they try to baptize you
gripping your throat with their
carpel tunnel fingers, reading glasses
slipping down their noses as they lean over
you, watching their words pour into
you, their victims' throat, as they will it
and all the while they blame
you, because:
Humans make themselves miserable
They write
They bury themselves in all they hate and
choose to burn all they love until
they're alone and self-loathing and scarred
unrecognizable
They write
Of our hatred for humanity
for every single individual that surrounds us and
How we surround ourselves with them
with crowded supermarkets and lanes of traffic because
they fuel our suffering and
That's all we crave
They write
On our thirst for blood
our lust for **** ****** war on
How our society is fueled by violence and how
we bathe in it with a grin
stretched across dry bleeding lips
sharp teeth that rip through our neighbors' flesh
with delight
They write
that we're alone in suffering and surrounded by hate and
we're wild animals driven to war
out of boredom and
That's human nature in a nutshell
That's the truth revealed
nasty, gritty, honest
They write
and that's when
it comes, that gnawing in the
pit of your stomach, that
scratching in the back of your mind
that claws its way
down into your throat where it
squeezes
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 2:28 PM UTC
'Good evening', as I come through the door
shutting out the noise and dirt that now gathers at my welcome mat
where I wipe my shoes and leave my feet.
Hanging my head on the hat stand I am home,
today's news is getting older in the paper under my arm,
print leaves it's imprint on my white starched
office shirt.
In the kitchen there are dead animals in the oven,
cooking amongst things from the ground,
bubbling and boiling,
mother natures bounty bought from sterile supermarkets.
Fresh air is packaged in re-usable cans
re-cycled, made into planes that fly over great oceans
and mountain ranges, deserts,
where Bedouin tents blow in the breeze.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 7:48 AM UTC
A man stands. overlooking two different visions. Two different choices.
On the left he gazed over the glorious modernized utopia. Tall prominent skyscrapers, gleaming in the dazzling pure sunlight. Clinical white rows of spacious suburbia. Unnaturally green gardens of perfectly shaped, perfectly cut square grass accompanying the houses. Polished, scentless people strolled down the un-littered perfection of the linear streets. Enormous great smiles featured on the faces of all. The urban paradise. Biblical, eden in practise, sanctity. Economical bliss. Unpolluted, crime free, social perfection. No inequality, racism, no hatred only love among broters. No depression. The endless rows stretched glorious miles, convenience, supermarkets, brand new glistening, hospitals, all necessity in perfect working order. No unemployment, no political unrest. Every man among equals. Utopia.
On the right hand side, wretched poverty as far as the eye can see. Cramped, overwhelmed shanty towns. Terrified people, dragging themselves through diseased streets. Crippling illness plaguing the antagonized masses. There is no employment here, no glistening new buildings. Only the decaying festering ruins of lifetimes of selfishness. Hatred, jealousy, paranoia, neurotic fluttering harpy’s, harlequins of the night. Plagued minds, plagued bodies. Gargantuan monsters of men rose from the rubble. Demented. Lava flows freely through the crumbling streets. There are no trees here, no vegetation, only blackened earth. Blackened with the ****** despair of man. Only anguish in this land. The black sun burns with hateful rage in the sooty, cloudy toxic sky, the only rain falls as corpses falling from sardine cans to the sky. Burnt out cancerous lungs, filled with sulphurous air from the giant volcano's of dead minds, spewing deadly chemicals into the already uninhabitable environment. The demons of despair stalk this land, endlessly wallowing in there own self-loathing, amongst other vile things.
The decision resting on his shoulders governs life for all men, all men to come. His left side, yearning for paradise, freedom, equality for all, peace, communal gain.
His right side leaning towards narcissistic self gain. Taking the world for himself, watching alone the setting of the poisoned blck sun, poisoned by his greed.
He walked forward, leaving the realms of choice behind him. The future was his to choose.
Apr 10, 2012
Apr 10, 2012 at 4:45 PM UTC
He was born this way
In a world filled with light
But none of which he could witness
They simply called him ‘The Blind Man’
As he wasn’t very unique in any other way
Entranced in his wanderings and musings
One could spot him
At the corners of supermarkets
Wandering and loitering, almost interchangeably
Nobody had ever approached him
Even the notion of ‘parents’ was alien to him
As they had apparently thrown him out, at the sight of his unreflecting eyes
Perhaps this gave him a tint of bitterness
Thus, The Blind Man lived
Approaching life with the barest of efforts
Considering by the second why he couldn’t end it
It was in this musing which he found himself that fateful day
Once again enveloped in his blanket of self-pity
But, for the first time, found himself approached by another
She was a petite little thing
Able to count the years she had lived in the palm of her tiny left hand
But her heart was greater than most foretold to be older (and somehow ‘wiser’)
It may have been a comedic sight for an outsider
A blind, helpless wanderer approached by a pure, innocent creature
Yet, such a sight invoked a saga told through generations
He asked her what she desired, as he had never experienced another’s interest in him
She said nothing, only holding up what seemed to be the smallest of morsels
He never found out how he understood her meaning
Only that the smallest of her motion seemed to move the world around him
He wondered, as he accepted the small portion of cheese and bread
Wondered how suddenly the world had become so bright
How the smallest of hands
Could somehow give the most
The Blind Man had lived his life in darkness
Shunted away from society, convinced of its malice
But sometimes, all it takes is the smallest kindness
To change the greatest of convictions
He asked her for her name
And she whispered it out sweetly, before being shunted away by her wide-eyed parents
He mouthed the innocent syllables silently
And then, for the first time in his life
The Blind Man opened his eyes
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 7:55 PM UTC
The metal cart intertwined,
forcefully ****** it free.
I wipe off the microscopic organisms,
that manifest in the plastic fibers.
Push the cart across the cracking linoleum tiles.
Hearing the rusted wheels squeak,
as I veer through the narrow aisles.
Collecting an assortment of desired items,
that seem appealing despite the harsh florescent lights.
The radio ads try to entice me to purchase new things.
I grudgingly ignore them.
Crossing the goods off my list,
with a swift black x’s
the same black that is seen on the signs for sales.
2 for 3 dollars?
Is hard to resist.
Blackberries, Greek yogurt, a head of broccoli,
soon I have a heaping cart.
To my dismay the lines are long,
they slowly begin to dwindle down.
Cashiers frantically punching codes,
scanning coupons, counting change.
What is this? Okra?
The black conveyer belt constant hum,
as it carries my purchases down.
Until they are all awaiting for me,
in paper bags.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 2:47 AM UTC