a poem by Roger B Rueda
At its fanpage, my messages seemed like
written in water, there seems to have
some nixies or tokoloshe terrified to eat,
suspecting that the messages
were toxic substances.
I knew only three black minions then:
the millionaire manananggal
and the two closet monsters, a psycho
Cindefuckingrella and a homophobic
dishonest gay ghoul, a pussyboy in denial.
Now four. Now five. Now six.
Yes, there are a lot of them,
aside from the ones seen by the guards -
the ones we gossiped into the night.
I think the minions deleted
them for them three, for themselves
as well: the messages are mirrors
of their past, present,
and future. Don’t trust them,
they’ll spy against us. I felt one minion
visiting my Facebook wall then.
They speak like gods but they haven’t
mingled with gods. They are demons:
namarrgon, ho’ok, lilith, changelings.
Blackpencil or Ace Saatchi & Saatchi
or Publicis or Bacon doesn’t know them
but they would ask the students projects
as if they were Araw awardees
or Jessica Soho or Nick Gowing
or Veronica Pedrosa or Doris Lessing.
Anvil or Manila Critics Circle doesn’t
know them. Corporate Image Dimensions
or Stratos or Strategic Edge won’t stand
aside to let them pass, and so will we
victims of injustice, of horror.
Don’t gradually relax your hostile
attitude to them. Professor, what professor?
They are not. Show them our irritable glare.
They are black magicians or pseudo-professors
with MAEd or EdD yet they don't carry research
into their fields - they are just mediocrities.
Look at ourselves: 90% of us are mislabelled
like unknown goods: teacher, sales clerk, dancer,
bum, nothing – we are supposed to be directors
or producers or anchors or filmmakers.
Their magic, well, our wide-eyed virtue
has exposed the pretences of our
university – its horror in our common sense.
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