"woodstock" poems
(10/13/12)
At the beginning of “64” - I packed up my uniform
And walked out the door- it was the beginning of
The Vietnam war.
By August of that same year
President Johnson started the draft
Under protests and jeers.
Then he made it a full scale war
And sent our soldiers to Vietnam shores.
The Beatniks in Greenwich village
With their long hair, beards, and
Flip flop sandals - wrote their poetry
About this undeclared war, and why
Our men were going to those shores.
This created a new generation called ‘HIPPIES”
The hippie generation was groups of protesters
Against everything that they found wrong
The draft , the war , pollution
And loved to stay high with *** hashish
Coke and acid (lsd) which kept them blasted.
This also created the “ flower children”
Who like the hippies loved to be high
And on certain flowers they would fly.
But they spoke of loving one another
And gave out flowers as a sign of peace
Which to the president was a relief.
They all started painting this “53 Chevy impala”
With the words “ flower power”.
Now the “ flower children and hippie movement
Was in full swing, and everyone was doing their own thing.
They had Greenwich village under their control
And not one coffee shop would ever be sold.
Every coffee shop had a poetry night
And going there was such a delight.
Then in AUGUST of “69”
The WOODSTOCK festival was on the rise
Over half a million people drove to that farmland
And set up tents , hammocks, sleeping bags and such
And the police found it was much to much
So they had no choice but to see it through
Because there was nothing else that they could do.
The WOODSTOCK festival had become world wide
And to this day it still thrives.
© L . RAMS
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 11:17 PM UTC
The youth
Youth is weird,
Somewhat interesting.
An adult pop rock mix
With child soda pop.
Youth is Coca-Cola,
Marlboro, whiskey and energy,
The eternal monologue of life,
ID number, property tax and Netflix.
Youth is John Lennon,
Che, Fidel and Hendrix,
Contemporary history,
ancient and medieval history.
Youth is pants ripped jeans,
Popsicle, lollipop, painted face,
Chicle, coffee and french fries,
Point G, miniskirt and condoms.
Youth is the Dalai Lama,
Techno, rave and rasta,
Drugs, drops and guitar,
Punk, samba and hopefully that-fall.
Youth is the opposite of the opposite,
It's a Friday at midnight,
Mustard, ketchup and mayonnaise,
X-salad, ham and cheese sandwich and X-men.
Youth is D-Day,
Vietnam, Hiroshima and Nagasaki,
Testosterone, Woodstock and Waterloo,
Afghanistan, TPM and MTV.
Youth is a pressure cooker,
Isis, Syria, sukiyaki,
Anonymous, Al Qaeda, rice and beans,
Genesis, Revelation and mint candy.
Youth is weird,
Somewhat interesting.
An adult pop rock mix
With child soda pop.
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 7:25 AM UTC
I hate woodstock
I hate the whole
mainstream counterculture
why embrace something as alternative
when society itself is evolving to be just that?
I almost desire to be
the textbook,
cookie-cut
worker drone
family man
but I figure,
I'll push in a different direction
than anyone I know
most writers are
bullshitters
anyway
especially the best
ones--
I could imagine Sartre
before fans,
promising a world he couldn't provide
I think all writers
at their core,
are idealists
dreamers
when that ceases,
they can no longer write
or turn
to nonfiction
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 1:25 PM UTC
A Four day concert, created by Roberts, Rosenman, Kornfeld, and Lang
Was originally supposed be a three-day music festival, and up it sprang
But the citizens of citizens of Wallkill, N.Y. did not want their nice quiet town filled
With drugged up hippies that would overrun, and with this idea they were not thrilled
With many battles and protests, Wallkill passed a law on July 2, 1969 banning
The would be concert from going forward leaving the town quite less enchanting
Almost not getting off the ground, hippies all over demanding refunds for their tickets
Stepping forward, Max Yasgur offered his 600-acre dairy farm so no one would picket
The new location for the Woodstock Festival would be Bethel, New York
No one from the other town would not have complaints or come uncorked
Despite the many problems of people threatening to quit
Woodstock got off the ground despite things still being chit
This concert was poorly planned with two major setbacks, as news spread that it was free
There were congestion of cars that policeman had to turn away, for as far as one could see
Organizers lost huge amounts of money while hippies walked through gates without paying
But it was estimated that 500,000 people made it to the concert and they came in swaying
The music seemed to play non-stop as people sat and listened and some would play
It was very muddy from all the rain of what it did from much of the concert everyday
Listening to greats such as Creedence Clearwater Revival, Santana, Jimi Hendrix, Sweetwater
Can’t forget, Grateful Dead, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, Jefferson Airplane and Ten Years After
The concert ended and picking up the pieces began, that wasn't just the trash that was left behind
It was the lawsuits that many filed against the organizers since beginning to end put many in a bind
The greatest music festival in history later put to a movie that is divine
Something that will forever be talked about from the summer of 1969
Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
The year
1966.
Manson was on his spree
Hippies chilled the breeze.
Chicks dancing with rubies on hips.
Then came 1967
Hendrix wowed the crowd
Janis Joplins soul came out
Music splashed
Hallucinogenic heaven.
1968, patterns of clothing
Seemed to be from faraway.
It wasn't American to the main stream
Still wouldn't be today.
1969, Woodstock, the time
Of all togetherness, and weightless
Rockers heads filled with dust and buds.
Cities broke to riots
Gangbanging quiets over colors lust!
1970, met grandmammy
Touched the farmers scene.
Found the happy
In the sixties baby in me.
Today, now a mountain boy
On a machine that cuts down anything
In its way.
The farming hand
Making a living off of dirt and hay.
Spit and clay.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 8:57 AM UTC
The writer is
bound by the Oedipus
cauldron stewing can't relax
--all women are mine--
but this doesn't stop the bloating bubbles.
But the writer did not invent Wonderlandia
--no double-sided tape or wrong number or sloppy poetics.
Wonderlandia was born from the ***** of the stars
--our fathers,
and the void of space,
--our mother's womb.
the writer
was busy staring at the girls that walked by
ditch diggers for renovations on Euphoria.
The hippies are disappointed in this current Wonderlandia,
or they would be.
Their dreams had dirt in the mud,
they walked upon. Our Woodstock
is celebrity interviews,
reservations failing,
political satires--the last ring of change
sold at five cents a word. Period.
the writer
says it understands and writes:
"Sticks shaped from elitism
rare.
Usually a vibe too brittle,
breaking in battle.
The bass thundered robins.
The snare's firearm stabled the swift,
electrifying beat.
The brass was addiction
to the crowd's ears.
All before the elitism was born,
a symphony was constructed in the drug's head."
the writer
knows about D. A. Levy and his revolution,
we all felt that voice, so the writer replies:
"Did you hear about the John Lennon poser
waving his gun on TV?
While listening to the Beatles, you
sit and watch the vagabond cry.
He says, "Counter-culture is dead, entombed
in a metal casket.
We need a new flame. Those watching TV
get your hands out of the basket."
the writer
walks with grandma Alice
by lakes,
thrilling dementia
"Don't tell me what taurine
and caffeine can do to my heart.
I can have alligators in my rib meat
eating away at bone marrow.
High? That's your question?
Hi...I am a float
in a useless pond
bordered by malnourished trees.
By the love of hell you better not
fertilize those ****** trees
because if I die
the alligator of my ribs
will dine and take your ****
girlfriend straight to the vet.
I thank you for asking though."
the writer misses
the syrup in the tree completely
I am not your beatnik
or future idol--burn your 1970's classrooms away.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
For every aging boomer
there are one or two they've known:
Heroes of the battlefield
Who never made it home.
Some classmate who was butchered
in a fire fight in “Nam.
A sibling who had perished
in the standoff at Khe Sanh.
Perhaps the Tet offensive
left some friend's blood spilled and spent.
Politicians speak of glory-
It’s the grunts who pay the rent
From the walls of Hue to Can Ranh Bay
from Tonkin to Saigon.
there is a wall in Washington
with their names inscribed thereon.
The lucky ones who did come home
recall the name and face
of some heroic eighteen year old
who perished in their place.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 4:51 PM UTC
I can't help but wonder why we are pretending like it's Woodstock and 1969 all over again?
We pretend we know something about peace.
We act like we understand what it's like to be women and have no rights.
(Ladies you have more rights than you think you do)
We act like we know how the men and women in war feel when they come home to protesters and hatred.
(Stop hating on people who are risking their lives to save our country!)
1969.
*** drugs, rock n roll.
Peace and love.
We don't know anything.
We are so young and naive.
I am the same as the rest of you.,
I pretend like equality and legalizing drugs will make this world different, but it won't.
I like the idea of peace and love.
I love *** and rock n roll.
But I'm just a ****** up kid from the 90's.
I love too much.
I live too fast.
I'll die to young.
I like the idea of weaving flower in my hair & I love the Beatles.
Maybe 2014 is 1969 in a more obscene fashion?
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
A subtle carol echoes of the evening
Upon bended knee I am arrested
Betwixt strange refrains
Shaking the floorboards of Teicu
The evocative moans amplify
The foolish peacemaker of astrologists
The English dream of poetry
Those I coaxed by death
Were the witnesses of the tragedy
And were familiar with its ballad
Crafted the design ‘tis conceptual ***********
Eradicated their honor for vanilla threads
As they shimmy and shimmy
They defile elongated hankering
And retreated in the greenhouse of Woodstock
Its language made iconic by efficacious character
Having often been labeled an experiment
Broadening its brilliance along death’s boulevard
‘tis she who was the stunning one
Her language made sacred by her iconic fame
A long time controversial reference
An automaton, an origin of extraterrestrial etiology
The evocative moans ensnares the tourist
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 10:48 PM UTC
i remember hippies all those years ago
and a place call woodstock where they used to go
spreading words of peace and an end to war
only flower power and be free again once more
they flocked in there thousands to the woodstock ground
singing songs of love spreading love around
but that was years ago now the hippies have all gone
no one left to spread there peace or carry there love on
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 4:44 PM UTC
For every aging boomer
There are one or two they've known:
Heroes of the battlefield
Who never made it home.
Some classmate who was butchered
in a fire fight in “Nam.
A sibling who had perished
in the standoff at Khe Sanh.
Perhaps the Tet offensive
left some friend's blood spilled and spent.
Politicians speak of glory-
It’s the grunts who pay the rent
From the walls of Hue to Cam ranh Bay
from Tonkin to Saigon.
there is a wall in Washington
with their names inscribed thereon.
The lucky ones who did come home
Recall the name and face
of some heroic eighteen year old
who perished in their place.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 9:52 PM UTC
WOODSTOCK
They came from The South, The North and The West Coast
450,000 together for peace and music, half a million at most
Richie Havens inspired all while singing his "Freedom" song
Country Joe McDonald dropped "F" bombs his whole set long
Carlos Santana amazed us, as he gave all and sacrificed his soul
Arlo Guthrie with Woody's **** packed his pipe and smoked a bowl
Canned Heat and The Bear asked us to work together united stand
Levon Helm pounded skins and sang "The Weight" with The Band
Joe Cocker warned us more than once that he might sing out of tune
One after the other, CSNY, Alvin Lee, Sha Na Na midnight 'til noon
Janis gave a piece of her heart along with a "Ball and Chain"
Jefferson Airplane sang about Alice out in the pouring rain
The Fogerty's sang about where they were born and two girls one proud
And for the life of me I can't figure out why The Who played to this crowd
Jimi capped it off with The National Anthem and "Purple Haze"
the perfect ending to four long daze of rock and roll blaze
So if your travels take you to New York Up State
Stop at Bethel Wood, the place where Rock History was written in Slate
"1969, when music was grooved in vinyl and carved in Rock"
inspired by the song "Woodstock"
written by Joni Mitchell
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
my aunt,
my beautiful aunt,
my hippie aunt.
the one who gave me a jar of sand and shells and whispered, "don't ever open it, or else the whole sea will spill out".
my aunt who smokes joints and offers it to the birds.
the one who sings on mountain tops, and tells me about her trips.
"i could hear my skin cells whisping past one another",
'parmel gantry they said, parmel gantry i echoed'.
the one who told me her whole existence is based on the fact that a furniture truck delivered a sofa to the wrong house.
my aunt who said when her daughter was young,
14 maybe, she would sneak off and see maryjane.
she said she was on her way to Woodstock,
but her brother, her brother was a cop in new york,
and he 'kidnapped' her,
told her "no, the closest you'll get to those ***** hippies is through this television in the attic."
"but he made me dinner every night, it was wonderful" she said,
"i hadn't seen him in years, we really bonded."
"i had a scholarship to upenn, he didn't want me to lose it"
but she dropped out one week in and moved to oregon.
she married on a commune, and her housemates threw rose petals on the only bed there.
and when that was over, she married another by the same name.
and i've never seen someone laugh so much.
i've never seen someone so happy, so genuinely happy.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 4:57 AM UTC
she posts her credentials
privately, to just you,
in the din of a currently popular
university barroom
and you dressed in your
pick up best,
plumes of all male grinning,
reeking in thinking -
oh yeah!
va va voom,
lucky
laughs and liquor,
cheap 3.2 Ohio beers on tap,
come super highway fast via
as my finger flick be wagging
to an attentive bartender
who recognizes,
a new venture worth
his investing in a newly forming
gene pool of the
collegial world of what you children
can google as
The Sixities
you see, she says,
she is minor famous,
had two minutes in a movie
called Woodstock,
instantly recalled distinctively,
which you honor with
a dozen roses rising of
very cool
and a few daisies of
wow
so young,
she's hitch hiking thru life,
karma, ying and yang, Sagittarius and
Hesse's Siddharta,
a little ****** break out back,
our lives have intersected in
Cleveland in 1969,
and there is no question unanswered,
your bed, is her bed,
this night
you puzzle yourself,
memory recycler,
why in 2015,
you celebrate a one stand,
a single strand
excavated from
the meta data of your brain
tonight,
from among a hundred lifetimes previous
*Why Woodstock Woman Wonder
and you do,
why, wonder,
have you stayed with me so long,
that your face is indelible tattooed,
easy extracted from ancient cells
risen by this
dawn's early light?*
are you pining old man,
are you dying old man,
trying to write it all down
before the insurance company
grumpily has to pay up?
this carefree woman, no,
young forever girl,
looking up to you
asking where can she crash tonight,
answered in a single guttural
exclamation sensation,
with me babe,
with me baby
fifty years later,
crashing you,
crashing with you,
with roses and daisies that never died
wonder where she is today,
a grandmother multiple,
or sleeping gone from an overdose
of stuff you occasionally fooled around with,
or are you spending another night
in your tripping life,
with another
one night man*
no answers given,
but it is, it was,
a single dot on the trail of dots and dashes,
the existential Camus moments of
of two ordinaries that intersected,
however briefly,
and you wonder,
not why, but if,
*Woodstock Woman,
do you remember me?
I need you to,
I want you to,
explain better
why we are crashing together
one more time*
~~~
August 20, 2015
5:32am
nyc
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 1:05 PM UTC
If I could figure out the snit that I’m in now,
and understand the state, and how I got there
then perhaps I’ll get a sense of where I’m heading,
or at least from where I started this long journey.
My mind is shackled like a prisoner on the lam
and crashing out for freedom’s choice or bust.
I must admit I’m crazy from the fever,
and searching for the answers never found.
There was Martin, and John and Gandhi too
teaching love ins, peace and happiness.
We wrote and sang and made love in bushes
While celebrating Woodstock Nation.
But, we had Tricky **** and Kissinger
insisting on a war that no one wanted.
The killing fields stretched cross the ocean
to my backyard and yours, remember?
So choose my brethren, choose between
a war of blood, dismay and torture
or of peace and love and happiness,
and a place called Woodstock Nation.
Jan 2, 2011
Jan 2, 2011 at 12:27 PM UTC
i remember hippies all those years ago
and a place call woodstock where they used to go
spreading words of peace and an end to war
only flower power and be free again once more.
they flocked in there thousands to the woodstock ground
singing songs of love spreading love around
but that was years ago now the hippies have all gone
no one left to spread there peace or carry there love on.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 7:39 AM UTC
It's the next best thing!
It's a scream!
It's got a screen!
and a million little buttons
that won't ever do a thing
to erase that feeling
that you're feeling.
why you are always waiting.
like the Rockie's or the Canyon.
like Columbus and the the great depression.
like Woodstock and world wars.
like the Illad and the Odyssey and The Beatles.
something more than
The consumer generation.
a definition through epic episodes.
a defining moment.
The revolution has been sponsored
by manufacturers and broadcasters
and warmongers and pundits
and people getting paid to tell you what you think.
and what do you think?
Why are we content with being incomplete?
unfinished and beat?
What the **** is so Comfy about that seat?
You are not generation X
or Y or Nothing or Nowhere.
or any of these false names they've created
to make us believe we are less than we are.
we've been duped.
the youth is not the future anymore.
It's firmly in the grip of the old and accomplished.
Your fate is their whim for a dollar.
Your life is fuel for the fires.
crass entertainment inspires your desires.
And well, **** that.
pull the wires from your brain
and we'll fight to regain.
what territory they've taken away.
Make decisions for ourselves today.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 2:32 PM UTC
Tiles damp and unforgiving
Like granite
Cover his bed;
The rock of misfortune is his pillow;
On a broken public stool
He leans,
An urban fixture
Unwashed and unseen
For every ruthless reason between
Hopeful birth and grateful death;
He once played lead guitar
In a band,
In Tennessee,
Like Jimi,
He says....
Then he landed a gig in Woodstock
Planting poppy seeds on fields rife with fertility
Where cash crops thrive
And feed hopeful babies,
Cheeks plump with the promise and pride
On which great nations thrive...
Then the monsoon descended,
Sweeping sown seeds and trees in full bloom
Into a desert of despair;
And no one cares....
That tiles damp and unforgiving
Like granite
Cover his bed;
That the rock of misfortune is his pillow;
That he leans on a broken public stool,
An urban fixture
Unwashed and unseen
For every ruthless reason between
Hopeful birth and grateful death....
~ Pablo
(1/20/2014)
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 8:21 AM UTC
“one day i will find the right words, and they will be simple.” - jack kerouac
pancakes on a sunday morning, jack daniel’s, getting really drunk then running naked through the forest, mosh pits, double rainbows, old trucks, freebandz, panic attacks, overflowing bubble baths, woodstock 1969, lemonade, slamming my head into wet pavement, the cranberries, jumping into someone’s arms after having gone years without seeing them, american spirits, crying, heavy metal music, innocence, laughing until a hospital visit is necessary, ragers, smiles on the faces of five year old children after stripping the shelves of a candy store bare, severe depression, the 90s, basketball hoops in driveways, putting on makeup at 1 AM, the mojave desert, life.
-z. vega
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 2:50 AM UTC
I've never heard a downpour stomp so loud
as the moisture above us incites rampage
droppin' bombs from celestial once neutral clouds.
the gods stamp their feet while the godesses pout;
eternal beings acting young for their age.
I've never heard a downpour stomp so loud.
With tents full of water and glasses full of stout,
my overdue almanac cries out to the mage
droppin' bombs from celestial once neutral clouds.
the drizzle it dropped but the encore soaked the crowd
the mud grew new flowers as hands mopped the stage.
I've never heard a downpour cheer so loud.
Drenched to the bone and wanderin' about
our level of wetness cannot be guaged,
droppin bombs from celestial once neutral clouds.
No refuge for masses sprawled under the spout;
bad acid, good music, free love makes us stay.
I've never heard a downpour stomp so loud
droppin' bombs from the celestial once neutral clouds.
Jun 30, 2012
Jun 30, 2012 at 11:35 AM UTC
"This is the end, my friend…"
Take refuge in the Golden Years.
Retire to an inevitable monastery
plopped on a suburban mountaintop.
Immerse yourself in the lost writings
of Nikita Khrushchev and Harry S Truman.
Learn to cook gizzards and meditate.
Find solace in obsolete atomic weapons,
enlightenment in the raw, butchered
expressions of the naked thermonuclear.
Wangle, ****** fire, and maneuver.
Get in touch with your inner Eichmann.
Devour baskets of tasty deplorables.
Stop clinging to guns and religion.
Love the fascism of the ordinary.
Become content with mere content.
Stop waving daggers at the innocent.
Wash yourself in the blood of the lamb.
Accept that Woodstock was futile.
Admit you can’t get no satisfaction.
Penetrate the goddess of unreason,
and come screaming to your senses.
Declare the dawn of the Age of Onanism.
Keep your fingers out of Pandora's box.
Bid farewell to the ghost of Joe Hill.
Depart the smothering, smooth life
of lust, corn flakes, and competition.
Expand your mind in a mushroom cloud.
Travel upriver to the ****** of Darkness,
legendary source of honeyed generation.
Attain new heights of perfect despair.
Discover the latent bliss of cassowaries,
rooted in their strong disdain for kale.
Play poker with the spirits of the dead.
These are your days of lucky revelation.
Lick magic frogs and witness lost dreams.
Arrive at the perfect wisdom of what is.
Everything and nothing, just what it seems.
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 5:15 AM UTC
conceived to the rhythms of Woodstock
weaned on Watergate
raised on Trickle-Down Reaganomics
our adolescence taught us contempt for a government
but our education kept us too ignorant to reach past the disillusionment
aging under a system of
corruption and greed
dying penniless
unto our birthright
as the
empty generation
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 4:45 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Plastic end of the stick in hopes to never see the inside
Of what your anger stands from,
I put in all the work to love to have you in my arms , it's
Not enough in a continuum,
Constant calling , leaving voice messages in every hour
on the Hour just to gain some hope,
Looking for your soul crossing through dimensions even
In a paranormal state you just looking for a reason to
Just make it so,
So make it so,
Had to pick it up and get off the road,
Revised Woodstock , you don't need no clothes,
Running away is the choice that I chose,
And Lucy's In The Sky With Diamonds With her eyes closed.......
Being graceful with the savage toes,
There's nothing left upon the old railroad,
And if you didn't know , now ya ........
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC
I close my eyes. Feel your words inside my head. Whispering carefully they say the sweetest things, on my thoughts they do tread. I feel the beat of your heart, it pushes from beneath my skin. Oh. My. Lord. My saviour. I cannot withstand this heat from within. I feel no breath to breathe from, no more. No ending, no beginning of my hand to your lips; from where the waves meet the shore. Tender music is made and formed from the shell of my ear. No-one will believe the symphony I hear. I crave the touch of your fingers. Thought I should let you know. You lie with me, myself and I. I am addicted to the very idea of you. You became my labyrinth, my torso, my rabbit hole. I tied you in a knot around my neck and left you there to hang.
And he held my head in his hands, looked at me and told me that he was at home. He took my eyes from the world and gave me a universe to see. It’s a miracle. I was blind, now I can see. Take my breath and I am still free, to breathe. Where does the time go when I am laid in your arms? I could be here forever and never know the sunshine, the air, the rain or the wind. No night will seem so dark. I watch you talk to me, and I am lost in your words. I forget myself. I forgive myself. We conquered the world that night. We made new revelations with our silence, and killed the silence with the laughter. Oh my god the morning after. La la laaaa la. Sorry do I cry tears right now. Do I look at you and make my vow?
Phe-nom-ne-nom. I sing along to you in my head. Reliving our moments. Rethinking what you said. Jefferson Airplane never said it so well. Woodstock was where this moment was born. I cut off my locks, I was reborn. Samson was not I. Running round walls I never thought were there, catching the moment before it was lost in the air. I listen to music before I never knew how to exist. To love, to cry, to believe, to fly; I was kissed. Traipsing my hand across your back, I listen to you. I try to hear what you’re saying. But all I can hear is myself. I revel in my wealth. I was lost, I was lost, I was lost. And , man, it feels so **** good.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC