I like to believe that Jesus lives in a storm drain, right off one of the main roads that runs through my city besides a cute little stream and park just like the infamous 'It'. I also like to believe that he has long hair, brown in color and matted; almost as if he took one look at a roadrunner's nest and decided that he too wanted to shelter the innocence of a new life. He came to me, my Jesus on a chilly autumn night six feet ahead of me and to the right. I didn't notice him at first, almost as if he rose from the ground like the cold mist that swirled around my feet in winter. My Jesus wore Jordans that stuck out like red thumbs against the new age hipster pants that sagged around his waist, inching closer and closer to a revelation that mother Mary would sure be ashamed of. I was on my way home from work that day, I taught Sunday school ironically enough, and while many lessons had always told us that Jesus was a Jewish man of color, I now grew the knowledge of this not being true. You see my Jesus was as white as light with dark circles under his eyes so deep in color they looked as if they were painted there every morning in resemblance of late night drinking with very little sleep. He had bruises all over his arms and his wrists and I knew what that meant. I saw needles hang from his pockets, and he walked with a hidden limp, two fingers grinding the butt of a cigarette into dust. But I knew he was my Jesus because as soon as I turned around to get a closer look, he had disappeared. Vanished, into thin air that only someone with immense power could do.