The Gospel of Deception

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

You walk into the room with the slow assurance

of a man who has already counted the seats,

the exits, the faces turned toward you.

Your smile is generous, wide enough

to stretch across a table set with fine china,

a handshake that lingers just long enough

to remind them—you know things.

You call yourself a servant of the people.

Yet you never arrive empty-handed.

A roasted pig, its skin crisp and gold,

laid before the mayor’s expectant hands.

A bottle of whiskey, older than the city’s roads,

uncorked in the office of the police chief.

A thick envelope, folded once, slipped

into the right drawer, unseen but expected.

You call them gifts, a gesture of goodwill,

an expression of pakikisama.

They call it gratitude. And in return,

your name rises from their lips, pressed

into the ink of a new project list.

A building here, a road there,

a budget swelled to fit the weight of your pockets.

You never ask. You never have to.

Because before the contracts are signed,

before the bids are placed, you let slip

a whisper, a carefully chosen reminder—

A phone call to a wife who does not know

her husband has a mistress. A quiet conversation

with an auditor whose books do not balance.

A friendly chat with a journalist, eager

for a scandal to print.

You do not need to threaten.

The world is already afraid of you.

At mass, you bow your head.

Your voice is steady when you pray,

your hands pressed together

like a child who has never known sin.

You kneel with the weight of a man

who carries only virtue.

They believe in you.

The congregation murmurs your name

with reverence, your advice sought after

by those who mistake cunning for wisdom.

Has God not blessed you?

Are you not rich?

Do you not live in a house larger

than the church you pray in?

The young men see you and nod in admiration.

Here is a man who understands the world.

A man who has learned that righteousness

is a costume, that honesty is for the weak,

that the universe rewards the cunning.

And so they follow.

They learn to bribe, to flatter, to promise

what they will never give. They learn

that to speak of goodness is enough,

that to sound righteous is the same

as being righteous. They learn

that corruption is not a flaw, but a tool.

And you watch them.

You watch as they kneel beside you in church,

as they bow their heads, as they mouth prayers

with lips that speak lies the moment

they leave the altar.

You smile, knowing you have shaped

the future.

Not with truth.

Not with honor.

But with the sweet, hollow gospel

of deception.