"transcript" poems
I tried, x
**
something I get a lot is, “you’re too young to be a feminist.”
too young to be a feminist for you’ve yet to witness a rhyme or reason to believe we lived in a patriarch-fueled
society where the erectile dysfunctions of men are paid for by health care but, God forbid a
woman seeks birth control to help herself
God forbid a woman does anything to help herself
a society where women are taught to be happy with what they can get
yet to be ashamed when they get it
a society where I grew up being taught not to trust a man for he’d hurt me but
taught to have the house clean and his dinner on the table when he got home
a society where a woman in a tank top and a pair of daisy dukes is a ***** who is asking for it”
when the same woman is what’s used to market the male population who are taught that this is the woman they deserve
a society where a woman is unworthy and ***** if she isn’t a ******
but a man is a man so long as he is “getting the hoes”
a society where women are taught to protect their innocence and their virtue
and the society where they are ostracized and ridiculed for not being ready
a society where consent is hopped, skipped, and jumped around and the so called “fact” issued by
Scott Johnson that says men can’t control their issues
a society where a woman’s womb is not her own whether she wants this baby or not
I was taught *** was shameful and wrong unless you were married
but please, give him a baby and keep him satisfied
we glorify teen pregnancies and ignore the accomplishments of women
if I’m too young to be a feminist,
then it’s quite **** sad I can point out what’s wrong in the world.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 1:45 PM UTC
The mirror reveals a face naked and bleak,
the sweatpants have holes and the T-shirt is frayed.
It'll be over in a couple of weeks.
The hours spent escaping to Twitter speak
to the test on the floor with a failing grade.
The mirror reveals a face naked and bleak.
The tissue rips across my salty cheek
while my transcript laughs at the mess that I've made.
It'll be over in a couple of weeks.
I'll go to class tired and return home weak;
won't even bother with the "good girl" charade.
The mirror reveals a face naked and bleak.
"It's fine, Dad. My predicament's not unique.
I'll get my diploma, and all this will fade.
It'll be over in a couple of weeks."
Yet perhaps this last piece of paper I seek
will only frame the path from which I've strayed.
The mirror reveals a face naked and bleak;
It'll be over in a couple of weeks.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 2:39 PM UTC
The readers of the Boston Evening Transcript
Sway in the wind like a field of ripe corn.
When evening quickens faintly in the street,
Wakening the appetites of life in some
And to others bringing the Boston Evening Transcript,
I mount the steps and ring the bell, turning
Wearily, as one would turn to nod good-bye to Rochefoucauld,
If the street were time and he at the end of the street,
And I say, ‘Cousin Harriet, here is the Boston Evening Transcript.’
5.3k
winter's after-the-noon shadow lights,
fused-tinged with early-onset grays,
harbinger of one for whom death
detaches the answer from that question
too soon asked, so long unanswered,
why me?
those gray lights, a violin accompaniment,
mourning pitched wailings unasked for,
yet always in attendance, court courtiers,
feelings of insufficiency, angry angst insects
envy days when simplistic unknown fears
were the worst enemy, never lingering,
for unknowns have no answers and
cannot obtain permanent resident visas
but reality, another matter, mad hatter,
asking repeating what is this, why is this,
even comprehension partial gives
no comforting answer satisfactory logical
envy innocence past, for newer questions now *****
comfort by the lies in the essaying, trialling,
if, but, for, the distractions most affordable,
so grasp the pen that is the envy of thy companions
let the ink wail louder than you,
make paper shed what you have used up,
let envy of lost and found, found, yet still lost,
salve, but not solve, soothe, but not save
in the winter afternoons, those shortest days
of indeterminable longevity, words received,
offer little, but words self-conscripted,
a mortal transcript of pain immortalized by pen, relief will yet be,
for the pen is the envy of all
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC
*the ones warring on the flag of defeat can't be called either troll or parasite... too noble such entitlements, they are the **** genus worthy of ignorance, that they are found roaring on the flag of defeat, when such publicity is allowed of public musing deeper than soft-spoken in one's own room, as transcript of thought made public, ironically without one's geographic coordinates... and what lack of honour to be warring with such circumstances being allowed.*
i shouldn't have written my words among poets,
too many simplicities surrounded them,
with the poets came made surrogates,
a stillbirth, if nothing more
9 months of **** as the new economics
that gave us appreciative homosexuality,
a curbing of the expeditions of population
we didn't blame on Chinese or Blue Indians
due to having inherited masochistic Christianity,
the last greek mythology, THE, LAST!
and no more from the greek tongue! no more!
then the second feat of the suffragettes
that became the surrogates...
and yet, i stilled braved to sing
for the escapist tongue of
brotherhood that the misty mountain's cold
encapsulated... in which i braved
the brotherhood, every, second, counter,
to marriage to a woman...
domestication is no adventure! it's no adventure!
there is no fear and sudden death in
domestication... it breeds cattle! readied for
death not ready! *two dungeons deep and caverns old...
the pines were roaring on the hight!
the winds were mourning in the night...
the fire was red it flamed and spread,
the trees like torches, blazed with light.*
this... this is my ideal afterlife! take your Koran
and terrorism and take a **** in the desert with
the cats for worth of knowing such "exquisiteness"
as it might be worth mining in the dunes of sand!
while the thirst of metalloid and abstract horse-tow
gives your false timing...
and when you take this anger written on the flag
of defeat, and turn to warring with it on your own
flag of defeat... you will be conquered,
slain and tortured, as is my promise, always
honourable.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 7:36 PM UTC
Dear girl who dreams of my manic pixie nightmare
You are the one I never expected to meet
I am the one you have met a million times before
You're the girl obsessed with film craving invasion on television screens, propagandist **** muse, docs and a **** cut
I'm the girl obsessed with ******** and using boundaries as skipping ropes or thread to turn my hair to tapestry
You're Bowie
I'm Hendrix
You like visuals, shapes and sound and pretty cinematography and things I can't understand, your mind is a transcript in calligraphy I can't decipher,
I like books that come in three and getting to the end and not knowing how to live anymore
You're brimming full of hope and dreams and set lighting
I'm disappointment and drowning shame in the bottom of tumblers, spilling the leftovers into quotable dialogue
You're too good for my obscenity to taint, you can't find what you're looking for in me
I'll be your undoing spiralling constantly in a figure 8
You are the manic pixie dream girl we've all been searching for
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
Decipher the bowels
that slushes out through my imagination
Crystals and xylophone chimes
Pouring out the ink wells of sensation
Don't pivot pickets to my position
I can't stalemate this war for expansion
For my tongue is a swollen pickle
Dipped in bitterness
and ****** by the lips of semantics
I groove in the basses of basics
and grow a garden for further foundation
For my tongue is a swollen pickle
And boy is it's perfume amazing
I mean
Can you smell the awkward amps?
Pumping veins with Crayola visions
or a Chaplin transcript with deadpan humor
Are you experienced enough for social division?
My tongue is a swollen pickle
Say whatever the hell I wanna say
Crunch me when you digest this sour thought
For the reign of excitement's here to stay
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 8:54 PM UTC
In Nebraska, they are murdering transexuals
those with necks red as blood and lipstick
This recording is the last of the words which are me
-Play on the air for all to hear
or smash them between these two bricks
these two red bricks of earth and stone
In Nebraska, they are murdering transexuals
which you may think is funny
when their lipstick gets smeared ridiculously
across the macadam
until you see their blood the same as yours
until they come for you
those "good old boys" with fists like bricks
and necks engorged with hate and spit
warm beer, **** and vinegar
sun beating down on their angry, little brains
This is the final transcript
of all that I am
embellished with sequins and such
scrawled in *****
These words are my lover's breaths
floating in darkness above cold ears
lost in cartoon-balloon blurbs
a drama of gasps
a flurry of snow and chipped nails
upon the pavement
across the prairie
in Nebraska
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 5:26 AM UTC
The Setting Was A Colored Stone (Pare 1 Of 3)
For the barefoot girl, the faithful
album was an afternoon in the
sports bar where there had been
a guitar player and some ginger ale.
Now the trumpet was singing a wide
screen view of the big game.
Eliminating distractions, the crew
was focused on the game, ignoring
the girl as she wandered, in bare feet,
between the tables. No pretense
suggested that the medium was not
appropriate for those who climbed
railroad ties and those who drank beer
in moderation after negotiations about
the green sheaves and the upstairs room.
In this castle, time was suspended.
The Setting Was A Colored Stone (Part 2 Of 3)
Ashes were good for the roots of the plant
in the window where the response was
directed to the coolness, or the hot weather.
In sports, the weather seemed to be extreme.
It was always freezing cold the opposite;
coaches meant to be cautious watching for
heat stroke among the players. The club was
not louder than the dim barn where animals
were removed from the immediacy of the
last few weeks of the season. Some of the
birds could not fly; there were mice that
could climb to humble abodes in the rafters,
and the cats gathered apart from the dogs.
The heavy lifters had reassuring
incantations derived by the artificial
structures of the radiology through iconic
projection. Antenna reception hovered to
mark the insects with aesthetic devices,
a discovery by evolution.
The Setting Was A Colored Stone (Part 3 Of 3)
Screams came from the permutation and
signing a transcript of the spiritual drawing
which had been seen wandering among all
the other creatures living and working in
the flying building. The gathering showed
grinning teeth and disappeared. Found at
the bottom of the mineshaft, was the fictional
ring of speculations and associations
confronting the mischief of the few by the
motionless badges of authority. Life depended
on the weathered red boards where the climate
ranged like it was galloping across the public
space, proved free by the friendliness of
kindly associates and the universe of powers,
the authority of birds that did not fly and barns
that had flown away.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
A phone call, Bilbao:
"yes, ok. Ok. Ok, yes."
Arms are waving
12 hours, a room in Paris:
a pencil case is being dropped on the floor, people are thinking in french
A police station with green walls:
a girl is stretching cling film over her face and falls off her chair
Somewhere else in France, I usually picture a farmhouse in the countryside:
running around in circles, reading from a piece of paper and trying to be heard over ‘Il n’y a pas d’amour heureux’
On a tube, London:
Takes off her bag, shoes, jacket, hat, jewellery, make-up. Lets down her hair
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
Coughing up tales, of which hundreds exist
Regretting us and misreading my transcript
Displaying a shade of default dismissiveness
False bereavement is what you're equipped with
Your visage remains a rivulet, negating encrypted lips
As you spew nix, levels of sanity collapsed when you loosened it
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 11:32 AM UTC
Sluggishly you frump to school
passing by people
whose faces you'll soon forget.
They don't matter,
don't waste your time.
tick tock.
You go to practice
your meeting
rehearsal.
Whatever it is
you group yourself in
to feel like you belong.
And for what else?
To look good on a college application
maybe; the motions of it
are the only thing
that matters.
Paying attention, making memories
is not traditional thought process.
How will that look on a transcript?
tick tock.
You mindlessly drive home
not paying attention
to the miniscule details
of the nature around you.
It doesn't directly effect you
so you see no point in admiring it.
what's the need?
tick tock.
You lock yourself in your room
and open the books
that surrounded you
for seven hours already today
and work for two or three more
hours of your precious evening.
You do it because
that's what is expected of you.
Monotonous efforts that someday
you will be unable to recall.
tick tock.
When was the last time you have done something
that you will be able to vividly remember
years from now?
You are
wasting
your
time.
Go. Live.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 12:12 AM UTC
Alright, world. It's time to get down to business. It's time to start caring about things that matter again. So take your mind away from all the trivial, superficial things and thing about the important things that change the entire dynamic of global society. I had a class last semester about Marx, Nietzsche and Freud. Those men amaze me. There was a time where there were people like Karl Marx trying to change the world. Forget whether you agree or disagree with his opinions. Whether he was right or wrong, he was convicted. It was his true beliefs. If you don't understand what I'm trying to say, think of Adolf ****** Some people agreed with beliefs of ****** some people didn't. People to this day are still agreeing and disagreeing with the beliefs of ****** Forget about all that. Even he, someone who was considered an awful man, did something. He tried to change the world. Yes, maybe he ended up changing the world for the worse, but the point is that in HIS MIND, he thought he was changing it for good. And after the existance of these people, all that stuff just... stopped. Who do we hear of nowadays who's trying to change the world (regardless of the outcome)? NOBODY. And the people who are doing things to change the world, nobody gives a **** about because people are too entranced with the more important things like What Not to Wear, the Kardashians, Honey Boo-Boo, and people being famous cake-makers. How many great philosophers, poets, psychologists who really care about the public do we hear around in this era? None! Of the few people who do try to make a difference in the world, none of them get recognized. Well, that is besides those celebrities who ***** a school in Africa because it's a good photo opportunity. I want nothing more than to even do the tiniest thing in my life that will make even a slight impact on the world; write a book, publish a philosophical transcript, but I'm starting to feel like there isn't even a point in doing so anymore because despite my efforts, in this shallow society, nobody would even take a glance.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 9:22 PM UTC
My worth is not measured by my standardized test score number. My worth is not measured by the amount of AP classes I am taking. My worth is not measured by my GPA. My intelligence cannot be measured by how many pages of a review book I can do and get a 36 on the ACT, a 5 on the AP exam, an A in the class.
I am so much more than these numbers. I am so much more than a transcript.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
so..like what we discussed the other day
'to feel so infect-able'
i mean, cool concept and all but
you said you get it and-and that's how i feel
you know ; all of the time
... like my brain is open and unprotected
floods of **** other guys say or **** i read online
stuff doesn't even make sense
they're just chewing on a mouthful of teeth
and it imbeds
gets right in the jelly and sticks around
and it has nothing to do with anything
but i'll spend the day with my mood crumpled
about some nasty 'piece of shit' directors
behaviour on a film set ... when ...you know
it's not even a film i'm interested in seeing
and-and there's so much **** right at our front door
we could help with that
but.. it's this irrelevant stuff
that's what i'm occupied with
am i just that vulnerable ? i'm an adult..
i should function without this damage
... get back to me as soon as you can ; i'm freaking man !…..
you know what ?
this is what's important and this is why we talk
friends .. in the real world .. you know such as it is
...left mucking stale turns before dawning a birth
pleasing as drawing in a vital breath or something...
...i just.. i just want it back
re-sleeve me
i miss the world
why did it leave me behind ? remind me
i looked in on it and there's no **** hotel in here
no airport lounge / midnite swimming pool /
abandoned zoo / empty theatre
no hollow feeds of subway tunnels
no void on anything
where's my basic program ?
not even a grid of human planted fir trees
or a giants causeway
or some cellular honeycomb
or some mad carpet design
i lost the pattern tap
i'm off the leash man
it's all a mess
a disarray
organic chaos
a foreign something
that doesn't want me to connect
i want to live like i’m part of the solution
but each day in struggle
it seems i'm increasingly an aspect of the problem
i need to be reigned in
and reassigned a post policed
police me i croon for policing
i am untrustworthy
an emulsion of self deception
(what does that even mean ?)
spinning turns in quick fix habits
i look at these hands
and if I could dream these hands
they’d be magicians of value
get back to me man ! i miss yupping with you
this is the important stuff
- message ends
Jun 14, 2024
Jun 14, 2024 at 2:12 PM UTC
It's not about interest, it's how you place
Your classes are weapons in an arms race
Your friends are taking two APs, so you take three
Soon we're mired in college work when high school is all we see
Counselors don't help, they only edge us on
Telling us we need advanced levels, or all college spots are gone
In Fairfax County, we score so high on tests
We ignore our thirty three percent depression and say we're the best
Because here all that matters is the grade on your transcript
You're a factory product, another computer chip
So if you're friend takes five college courses, take seven
After a semester, beg mercy and give up on heaven
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 10:12 PM UTC
coffee breath, lead stained hands, fingers numbly typing in numbers that have more value than my test scores,
numbers stab like axes cutting down trees that cry in silent screeches in the forest.
numbers like ninety seven, ninety, and eighty two.
numbers that will never define who i am on a college transcript
and these numbers are worth more than who i am in this world, since we are defined by numbers today
even though we made the same mistake in 1939, turning people into numbers by stabbing pigments into their forearms, creating a lesser value for them.
a forty eight is stupid and a fifteen percent is like a hollow head.
i am defined by numbers like fifteen and forty eight and i am told that i should be embarrassed of who i am, or for the number that i am.
and if an equation can't be solved," i'm sorry m'am you cant move on", because your capacity is again,
defined by a number.
i am not a number
i am not the forty eight or the fifteen that scratches the back of my eyeballs like nails filing down a chalkboard.
i am not the one forty five i sleep at when ripping my hair out trying to solve equations of irrational numbers when i should be solving the equations of my irrational thoughts
and everything is turning round and round and round like the infinite possibilities of solutions to equations,
and i go to sleep, and lay my head down as early as possible, but my mind is running in circles with numbers taunting me and defining me and interrupting my sleep.
it is morning now, my mother comes and checks on me to see how i am in this "new wonderful day"
the tiredness seeps through my purple eye bags that i try to cover with tan makeup, and i think about how i really feel in the morning. i stare in the mirror and numbers stare back, i weep as i sit on the floor with the numbers streaming down my eyes, evacuating them from my system, because numbers have made me mentally insane.
there is no hope of numbers leaving because they carry through, even after algebra two,
weight and credit scores, and the amount of money you owe in debt, your mortgage payment, and the amount your retirement fund has swallowed up for your uncertain future,
i am not a number
i am not a number
and i will fight numbers off like the moon controls the tide,
the tide will never control the moon,
and numbers will never control me.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
Now that the daze of drought has cleared,
And the torrent has stopped,
The cloud of harvest gathered
In the womb of the sky.
Cord of famine has broken,
Trembling under the transformational winds of coolness, making our farmland to yield bumper harvest, banishing the vessels of poverty.
Forest adorned the toga of greenness and the beasts in their loneliness, hiding under the cooler shade of trees.
Farmers regally rejoiced in the natural endowment.
Now that the rain has stopped
Let the shekere of harvest announces its arrival.
Mar 13, 2019
Mar 13, 2019 at 3:39 PM UTC
The name stood tall, long, indifferent, but beautiful
He was equivocally terrified
But equally, at peace, at the sight .
She was an angel,
she was a transcript from a beautiful future
She held his fingers from a silk rope
Calling
Flabbergasted, you realise how simply wet around the ears you are
© Copyright David Bosworth July 2013
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 4:12 PM UTC
You know it. I drop BOMBS like a B-52,
Drop psalms like a Bible off the back of the pew,
Stay calm, like the '80s stay trippin' on 'ludes,
Like the 90s stay trippin' bringin' me here to you.
That's how I do it, you know I keep it fluid,
I flow so smooth, all my verbiage is fluent,
No verse hits late, no syllables truant,
Got my angles all lined up, spitting congruence -
And I bet you didn't ask about my transcript, fam,
And I know you judged a book by its cover, ****
And I bet you didn't think I'd call you out right here,
Start addressing with respect as though we're peers, no fear,
But here it is. Some folks stay out at night to reach for stars,
I go home to dodge the fools askin' me to drop bars.
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 8:58 PM UTC
*The bird that couldn't fly
Was hoping to connect
The stars up in the sky
To finally crack the code
Where all the secrets hide
Behind the constellations
In the star-lit galaxy at night
She threw her little messaged question
Into the wine-less bottle
And up to the bunny on the moon
The inscrutable one can read the tricks
That the magician to us humans do
Deep within his hat
We endure within the rabbits fur
Hoping for a way out
But to go where
We remain unsure
Sailing through the tides
Until we finally reach the shore
In between our dreams
We reach for carnal desires
Someone who has a match
To light these cold hearts on fire
To burn away the freeze
That caused this to conspire
So we transcript the dialogue
Of our stolen ambiguous memories
Turning them into our own thrills,
Paintbrushes and pens
The hand, though feeble-minded
Is the fine-crafted key
Claiming to ourselves
This is what we really need
An already colored-on
And scribbled-out canvas
To repaint ourselves forever
A notion we call eternity
Maddened by a melody of echos
Of the intangible words
Our tongue-ties wish to speak
Achieve the figure eight
We solemnly wish to keep
The desire to never let go
Of the things that we've set free
A way to make amends
With the voices in our heads
A trail of broken languages
Written in ash and braille
What was it that was said
Which words have pulled the strings
That attach your heart to your head?*
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 1:48 AM UTC
Trust, ties, tears, tears;
With setting rising sun,
just Truth remains.
Trinity's traits transcending to transcript,
The temple trusting the tryst to tall togas;
Truces, tangs, tangles, tags, teams,
with tricks or trills are tackled, tamed by
Those trained to taste the towering truth.
Taints, taboos, tattoos;
With cycling of seasons,
only Truth stays there.
Transgressing traps, talons, treasons,
Thorns, thongs, tides translucent;
These tapes, talks, tales transient,
Are trifles, tickles, trivial, trite;
To tribes treading the track of truth.
Talents, tacts, top techs;
Against infinite labyrinth,
Truth alone can pass.
Taut troops trotting the toiling trek;
Taunting, tapering the tonnage of trash;
Transversing tough tests of tempts,
Are trails of tiring trials, For
Those who treble the tone of truth.
Thrashing traumas to transfixing trance;
With beast or with beauty,
Truth belongs to soul.
Through love and death,
the true timeless tapestries;
Life translates to truth,
and becomes a happy moment;
The moment which is forever.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 9:57 AM UTC
The blinded windows are shreds of paralysed glass. That brokenness....the hunts beyond the borders of the savanna grass. There was time when I died unable to work out this bare shell uncovered. The thousands songs that replay uncreating the moulded monsters. As the roosters awaken the unravelling dusk. At times the skies are brighter, others your voice wander within the beat of my heart. Paralleled as we are, hands widths apart extended with eyelids that feed the light across the oceans horizon. Sometimes, you will never know or read the words that are the reason. Whilst the world was against us, fuelled to make us disappear. Darkness overcame the starry eyes with lies. Despite all, I hoped you would have stayed a little longer. The fire still burned as our heads held up on the waters..... and YES when I wake up in the morning it’s always alright. The static zone of the melodious rhythm sinks below the sole of my feet. Awaking such feeling of aliveness. Sometimes love never goes away and it lights even deeper......
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 8:26 PM UTC
“I won’t have ***** living in my house”
As if that’s all you’ve said to offend me
Unlucky for you I have a great memory
I have a mental transcript of everything you’ve said to me
17 years of tyranny
Where do I begin?
All the way back to kindergarten
The special ed teacher said she thinks I have dyslexia
You said it’s an excuse for being stupid
That was the first crime of many
You’ve called me worthless, ugly, and unwanted plenty
But actions speak louder than words
You’ve thrown your empty bottles of gloom across the living room
Crime after crime I’ve cleaned it up everytime
3 kids and I’m the only one, whose been “lucky” enough seen your gun
In april of twenty fourteen you burnt my brothers funeral card
Your fist has never hit me quite that hard
My body is a canvas you painted black and blue
Step back at look at your masterpiece, in her rubber-banded shoes
Every day I become more and more like you
If I ever have a daughter dear lord is she *******
Who gives a **** if I’m relatively gay
17 years you’ve lived with me everyday
Also, why ***** plural?
Am I gonna start an army or some ****
Am I contagious?
I am plenty religious
I could count your sins
You say it hurts your shins to kneel at church so you keep sitting
And ******** on the person that I am
Making him perform this scam
At family parties pretending to be mine
Because my love is a crime
Are you out of your mind?
Its fine, I’m not going to cut my hair
This cross belongs around my neck
You need a reality check
Its 2018!
I am allowed to be seen without a man holding my hand
And protecting me from offensive words
This is defence served 110 pounds
I fell asleep to the sound of a car backfire
‘Call the therapist, this is dire’
Jesus, Mary, do everything you can
There’s a chance she wont be marrying a man
When life doesn’t go as planned just do more drugs
Hit and yell I’ll put in earplugs
But I’m going to push and I’m going to shove
Until you let me fall in love
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 2:32 PM UTC