My entire culture has been implied
to be a den of thieves. A buccaneering jolly roger of rascals that live inside
other people's gardens. That try
to steal all your money, and your energy, and pride.
Guess what?
I might be a rascal, but do you know what I like?
I like watching you take off all your stereotypes,
and hanging your biases out to dry;
and then I like it when you take me by the bicep,
and bid me lie down, so you can cry
on my chest, where the ocean meets
the rest. Where my lion's mane is stretched watertight
over your tiger's doorstep---your secrets---and the stripes
are made of lalang, and grass, and sunflowers;
where a real rascal finally learns
to ignore money, and fame, and power.
Like I said before:
I like it best when you give me a very hot cold shower.
I like it best when your manhood flowers to life
because it was right to do so.
Because the seed, so scattered and disowned,
has finally discovered it doesn't have to be terrified
of a Kristang Tree of Life that is grown.
Of a chumpiang hierosa Kristang, whose heart and body has learned to roam
the tides of time, and the bodies of men still ready
to blossom into something more sacred than being right:
I love that when you call me a mischief-maker,
and a glow-glow dancer,
you are echoing what four years in MOE seem to have been unable to hide:
the fact that the very best lessons
come from all the riches one has collected inside.
The fact that the very best teachers
are the ones that they claim could not bring the teaching profession into repute if they tried.
The ones who take their shirts off
only so that it is a little easier
to refute such lunacy, and to survive:
to be beautiful in every single fucking way of thinking,
and to fight.
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