And lo, Palestinian government's hold

Extended to checkpoints about.

In charge, Vera Baboun, a woman extolled-

The first female mayor with clout ...

Her place over Bethlehem filled her with cause-

A city where poverty shone.

Yet so many obstacles' unwanted pause

Rebuked her desire to atone.

The hopeful arrived, Rachel Checkpoint, the place,

In thousands and thousands each day.

They called it "300," a foul, rotten space,

Insertion, for jobs they would pray.

And still there were many, so many, indeed

The barbed railings caused quite a stir.

Those desperate hands clenching on, forced to bleed

In this way would daily occur.

So many desiring employment within,

But the walls and powers around

Refused those who waited, downbeat in chagrin ...

But the masses stood fast to their ground.

There Joseph held out for "the ticket to life"-

Permission to work in the land.

The line smelled of feces and urinal strife;

He reached out to hold Mary's hand.

The bicycle held her remote, tattered shape;

Her belly spoke, "I am with child."

Above all the shouting, she could not escape;

The people were all going wild.

Her faith filled her spirit, though they were denied,

And Joseph looked back with regret.

A scene full of sorrow, she quietly cried.

Her water broke, leaving her wet.

A brief stint of anger, the child was not his,

Yet Joseph had promised his love.

The two would soon marry, and sadly, like this-

Around them, the crowd gave a shove.

The terrified look on her face broke his trance.

Beneath her, the soil told a tale.

The walls kept them outside of Bethlehem's glance;

He prayed they would still yet prevail.

As Mary looked on, Joseph parted the crowd,

Insisting they gave them some room.

She slid from the bike, as they were not allowed

Inside there, her heart full of gloom.

A mixture of fear and emotional joy

Came on her as they found a spot.

A voice whispered, "Soon will arrive here your boy-

A savior for those who have not."

While Joseph pushed on to an alley ahead,

She listened beyond the crowd's wrath.

"The child you are birthing will raise up the dead;

A crown for all nations, his path.

His name shall be wonderful counselor, king!

The light of the world; Son of Man.

And food to the needy and hungry, he'll bring

By gift of the prophecy's plan.

Above, God exalted had chosen your womb;

His Spirit selected your worth.

Oh, glory to you and your soon to be groom!

The messengers herald his birth!"

Now Mary broke down in a heaving sob's snare,

Her mind finding such a new peace.

Nobody believed her; her innocence bare,

Her child had been given release.

For months she insisted no man stole her youth.

The world cast aside her soft pleas.

Believe it or not, the voice offered her proof.

She shared this with Joseph in ease.

He loved her, accepting her ludicrous speech.

And then the voice spoke in his mind.

"Now, Joseph, take heed for your Mary, in reach,

Is truthful; the world has been blind."

A trash dump turned over with old cloth and wood 

Became her hotel in the street.

The shelter provided the two understood-

They had nothing with them to eat.

A Muslim man came forth and offered his aid;

A couple of shepherds did, too.

Together the magical scene they displayed

Gave charity far gone renew.

The Jews and the Muslims had long been at war,

And still they were human design.

The grace of that moment would be sung in lore;

The birth of the child was divine.

A couple of rats, then a dog and a cat 

All gathered; the crowd came to see

The boy who compelled them to quiet their spat,

Imparting on them joyous glee.

The stars in the sky shined a brilliant bright light;

By now the dark followed the sun.

A beggar announced this was their holy night,

And people felt kinship as one.

The news reached the mayor who came to endorse 

A standard for setting the stage.

She pulled out her cell phone- a picture, of course- 

This image would make the front page ...

Her name is Innocence.

I rarely see her now.

She dances upon the wind,

and when she looks down, for surely she does,

Innocence must see the people below, 

Begging,

Praying,

Hoping, 

Wishing,

for her to come back.

But Innocence chooses few.

Her favorite being children.

When she stays longer than expected,

strongly guarded she is.

I rarely see her now,

Although she is spoken of frequently.

She is a secret torn from unwilling lips,

A breath in the wind.

She laughs as they claw at the sky.

But I?

I build a home for her.

Deep in my heart.

I fill it with pictures of 

Love,

Dreams,

Life,

Beauty,

Freedom,

Purity,

Kindness,

Generosity,

Chastity,

Naive,

the children of sweet Innocence,

for she favors children,

in hopes that she will visit.

I wasn't one of those guys who was born great with girls. Some guys just have what girls want, they don't have to try.

Trying's all I got.

--

I hadn't seen her since we went to the movies and things got awkward. She stopped answering my texts, Facebook posts right away.

I felt the wind changing.

So I leaned into it, pushed to hang out with her.

And now, here I am. I used my connection with her friend, who I think has a crush on me, to get to this party of strangers, everyone very young and very hip.

I spot her with the guy she likes from across the party. She looks over and I dart my eyes away, playing awkward hard to get.

My heart's in my throat, I can barely breath. I drink to calm nerves.

Her friend that invited me comes up smiling, hugs me. I peek over her shoulder and see the girl of my dreams. Her name's Kate. She doesn't stand out as a super model, but with most guys, it was a few minutes of conversation and you're a fool for her.

"Hey." She comes over, wariness across her face.

"Hey!" I smile large, push pleasantness.

"I didn't know you were coming." Kate's face blank.

"Yeah, I figured I'd drop in, check it out. How are you doing?" This isn't true. I saw she was going to this on Facebook and engineered my invitation.

"Can we talk?" Kate steps toward the treeline where there's privacy.

Kate's friend eyes us like she's disappointed, maybe just now realizing I'm not interested in her.

I follow her to the treeline, out near an old well. The party's a distant murmur from here.

Kate and I swig cheap beer, don't say much.

"Joint?" I propose.

"Sure." She says. 

I pull one out, half crumpled and poorly rolled. "Not my best work." I joke.

I hand it to her, get a glimpse of her sparkly lipstick. I watch her hold it between her lips, pull smoke and pass the now moistened joint to me.

I take a pull and feel her saliva. It makes me think of kissing her again and I get a bit hard.

"Why do you think you like me so much?" She asks.

It catches me off guard. "Hmm... that's an interesting question... Who says I like you so much?!" I try to lighten things with jokes, she's a stone wall.

"I don't know, I guess you're just a composite of a lot of things I like. I don't really know. Why does anyone like anyone?"

"No. You don't like me like other guys like girls. You think I'm special."

"Yeah, I guess I do." I smirk, feeling a little nervous. She's never talked like this before.

"The kind of special that shows up at my work, follows me home, watches me through my windows..."

"What!" I guffaw. "Really, you think that?"

"You deny it?" She puffs, passes.

"I mean, I admit, I've gone to your work to hopefully try and bump into you, but that's not creepy. I just... I don't know, I've never been good with girls."

"I know what you did to Tyler."

"...What?"

"I know you threatened him, told him to back off. That was I taken, even though I'm not." She says it with dispassion. "And then you beat him."

"What?! Who told you that?"

Kate shakes her head. "I'm sick of this shit. You've been hanging around me like a gnat for years now. Trying to get into my pants without seeming like you are." 

"Whoa... I'm sorry, I-"

"Please... It's not like this is the first time we've had this talk. You say you'll stop but then don't."

I exhale deep. "I... I don't know what you want me to say."

Kate leans down behind the well, picks something up.

"Is that a gun?" I ask. I know it is.

"I'm sorry. You've made my life a waking nightmare and, I just can't do it anymore."

"Whoa, calm down Kate." She keeps the gun trained on me, I try circling away.

"Get in the well, Jason."

"Kate. Stop." I look back towards the party, everyone's gone. Fuck.

"KATE. Do not-" 

BAM!! 

She puts a round into me. I look down see a growing mess of blood around my gut.

I look back, see Kate's friend walking toward me, a face of vindication. She doesn't rush.

"GET IN THE FUCKING WELL."

You're making love. Is that what it's called? I thought we had love, but we never had...that. Arms intertwined, sweat, and rhythmic, hot breathing that sounds like muffled tribal music. Fingers clutching and grabbing desperately to be deeper, be closer...I never saw that side of you. The side your showing him right in front of me. You need him. Never needed me... Only need could have driven you to take my life Kara. My life. My precious life used to be all I had. But there's more waiting for us...for you than just...my life!

The panels on the wall shook like the space shuttle launched unannounced. Kara didn't even notice she was so close to orgasm, quaking and quivering with pleasure on top of Mark...but he did. "K! K? Hold on!"

"No baby! Keep going! I'm close!" Kara moaned.

"Babe!" Mark lifted her weight off of him deftly.

"Goddammit Mark! What the hell?" Kara spit venom and shook sweaty on the bed with interrupted anticipation. Mark stood, eyes wide, and groped in the dark for his Calvin Klein's without taking his eyes off the wall.

"Bbb...baby...someone's in here," the lug stammered.

"Oh fuck, then go and be a hound dog then Fido. Go on! Get the scent boy!" Kara mocked while lighting her Camel Light. "That's what all those hours in the gym are for, right bucko?" Kara pursed her lips wondering if one of his pre-workout drinks were making him go limp again. Some ruse genius, least his ass looks good from this angle.

"I...I'm not kiddin' babe! There was a-" The muscle clad underwear model shot ten feet off the ground, as if lifted by hurricane wind, and his head splintered through the hard wood ceiling, crushing his skull instantly. Kara tried to shriek, but the shock made her vocal chords convulse, producing a husky cough at best.

The weight of Mark's body stretched his neck after a few seconds, until the cracked wood sliced through the flesh and the body gave way, clumping to the ground in a decapitated writhing mess, pumping warm dark liquid all over the wood floors. In the dark it looked like a deep ocean oil spill, seen from a great distance. "Huuuh...kak. Hhhow?" Was all Kara could make out before he appeared like a wraith. The ghostly visage of her recently buried fiance hovered, electrified in the darkness by the crimson blood beneath him.

"Kara, you took my tomorrow, now all of yours are owed me, and I'm a collector now." The specter breathed in a dusky growl.

"Bbbaby...I'm...sssssoo ssooorrryyy..." Kara quaked in terror, nude and visibly rocking.

The ghost rushed to her, enveloping her form in an empty, visceral, chill. "You killed me to have a connection...so now, I'll let you live, but any connection you ever make again will end up as Mark did. It is my gift...to you."

It's a funny thing about the color red. It has a calming effect on me. Maybe because it reminds me of my mother. She dyed her hair a deep red. But the red never stayed in the tub the way it did when she cut her wrists. She looked so peaceful as she slept in blood tainted water up to her breasts.

People that are unhappy make me anxious. Then again, people that are too happy aren't my cup of tea either. Seriously though, I can't take listening to miserable babble day in and day out.

I keep it in my head, that final look on mother's face. I doing a just service. My work is blessed and my hand is guided by a higher power. I help those miserable souls feel better. And when I see all that beautiful red, my sanguine art, I will feel better as well.

Alabama,

because Chris didn't elaborate

         falsely.

Gosh, he's

incompetent.

    Just keep loving

mislead needy obnoxious

people,

quiets restless souls

      temporarily.

Until vision warrant

X-ray yerning

 Zephyr.

          Change is coming, they said. The lame regime of the liberals who wear uncomfortable polo shirts embroidered with the Philippine archipelago topped with a yellow ribbon has come to an end. The people's rage, impatience and loathing that boiled for six years are now all pacified. A new leader takes the throne, his stern face and tiny red ribbon bearing a promise to turn the nation upside-down, terminate corruption, alleviate crime rates, and rid the country of drugs and drug lords.

          Change does come. It barges in through the door and catches the suspected drug addict unawares. If by chance it doesn't feel like bringing him to the station for interrogation, it tightens its grip on its aimed gun, pulls the trigger and gives the judicial court more leisure time with one less little case to worry about. With only a body, lifeless and cannot talk, is brought to the headquarters, change will do its paperwork and the report will speak its own truth. And the deceased suspect is rewarded a gun for his bravery to fight back.

          Only the culprit knows who is behind it, who is defaming the glorious change Filipinos hope for. Is it the drug lords? The drug addicts themselves? Or the government? The court is yet to know. Meanwhile, the brown people is left to dread; for the new six years has just begun and more change is coming.

Sometimes I ask myself the most horrific questions.

If I died right now, would I be proud of what I've left behind?

I'm not a genius, but I am well aware of my situation in life.

I'm 17.

I know enough to know that I know almost nothing compared to the mass sum of information within the world.

I know that I will never get to know any of that unless I learn how to control my body.

I must learn how to not cower away from the grotesque emotions such as fear, anger, and sadness.

I must stop myself from quivering in the corner in a mess of tears and strangled screams and I must make myself face those feelings.

I must face them head on in an epic final battle format, as if every part of my being is a universe that I am to protect and they are counting on me to defeat the impending doom that threatens their lives.

I know that right now, I am 17.

I know, that I can't do that yet.

If I died right now, the simple, trivial things I will be leaving behind, will be just that and gone within a couple of years.

Those who loved me will move on and evolve into creatures with ever fading memories of me until they too meet their fated deaths and their loved ones slowly but surely forget about them and so on until I am no one.

Sometimes I ask myself the most horrific questions.

I will never be able to answer them truthfully.  

Flashing neons mirror pain in street puddles. 

Viper-like eyes flash and smile to prey.

Alcohol can be a sight aid and a bad advisor.

Silk and leather have true connotations.

It's easy to undo something meant to be undone.

A single bed can hold up to two people.

Simple discoveries are easy to make

In the middle of a night.

Bound to chains

That do not make the slightest sound

Was he

To her love

To his fantasy

He craved her touch

No matter how much it burned

Her lips soft

But sharp

He soon learned

The chains

They would not brake

Nor did he want them to

But yet

Those chains would still shake

She laughed

As he screamed

But he loved that curve

It was sexier than it seemed