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Where is Joaquín?

by Marcos Pico Rentería on August 24, 2021 - no comments

Where is Joaquín?

“lost in
 … the whirl of a gringo
 … modern society”
 I am Joaquín
 Rodolfo “Corky” Gonzales 

A la memoria de Vanessa Guillén

  En el sonoro Arjé; ventoso, asfixiado:
 Fear no more the word you speak,
 In a place where no soul can rest from evil,
 Retaining the self as it unfolds into a the yo form.
 No elegí to be, sino que soy:
 I am the one lost in the frontier,
 There is no whirl,
 There is no place,
 There was not path for me.
 I found a stepping stone, 
 The refused stone, covered by mud,
 A mud that built helical yoes. 
 I am the YO.
 La paradoja es que existo en la sombra de otro, Ápeiron eterno:
 Being born into a shadow that brought nothing but a paradox;
 There was a war, not one I call mine, 
 But one that happened to mark me as a Son
 Of this forgotten land, 
 Creating betrayals as much as it has brought weeds,
 Land with arid soil and white mountains alike,
 Greens and browns and whites and reds
 Lined as a final shade of the western states.
 And what did you do?
 Not a thing.
 I lived in a time where O. Paz was strong,
 The Priato was nothing but respect and fear, 
 Nirvana was still crying for pain,
 Colosio’s flesh was still red,
 As the new bloods were about to sprout
 In a world where you could still hear the screams of the
 1992 fearless souls of South Central.
 That was your place, your time, and yet, 
 You did nothing.
 Where was Chomsky, Monsiváis, Fuentes,
 The soul of Octavio Paz,
 Or Perhaps the screaming and elegant voice of Fuentes, 
 Protector of the dormant voices.
 Where was the Subcomandante Marcos always 
 Fighting with his light eyes of opulent force, 
 The woken Che in a capucha negra.
 Poniatowska protested from her loins,
 And we waited for a voice that could resurrect César, our César,
 That never would show up again, anger, anger, danger. 
 Joaquín was found again, once by Allende, Isabel,
 Not the other Chilean leader,
 But an industry-tamed feminist, 
 Seduced by the towers of paper she stained
 And resurrected as a Zorro in a pretty film.
 Chomsky was still, statuesque of freedom, but pondered in a better world,
 Complacent voices filled a tower of elephant husks,
 Bloody husks that were stained by the tons of 
 Rotten elephant chunks.   
 The Narco was still not real,
 Was just a series of small shanty town businesses,
 But the beast was about to roar.
 Those corporations would be large enough
 To have full books of complicit yoes.
  The one voice trusted, was the single
 RAYO of the intellectual force. 
 But, where are you?
 ¿dónde estás? 
  A social class has taken our voice,
 Our consciousness. 
 Ya no hay voces que se escuchen.
 We are part of a third space where Black and White 
 Are the main actors, and the shaded-raced, are nothing but a 
But yet I ask, dónde están
 El Ilan Stavans, El Junot Díaz,
 El Don Francisco, el Chavo del Ocho (RIP), 
 El Juan Villoro, the nicest caballero,
 El Jorge Volpi, the political specter, 
 Cuarón, kicked by the industria muerta del filme mexicano,
 Zizek, voice of the Lacanian past and Freudian future, 
 As Rulfo walks, or walks around without knowing he’s dead,
 Gabo with a love letter, 
 Lezama, quiet beloved by the one and only Cortázar,
 Vargas Llosa and his discourse, as a frozen trident,
 A hidden force, a frozen poison flask. 
 A Gómez Peña that is awake, and full of soul;
 A Junot that has a past that dulls his pride;
 A Pérez Firmat, A Pedro Palou, 
 A Valeria Luiselli y su Álvaro Enrigue,
 A Felipe Herrera, A Yuri Herrera,
 A Paz Soldán, and Liliana Colanzi,
 Waiting for their voices to be heard, 
 To be (RE)discovered. 
 There has been a way to quiet Joaquín’s voice,
 Bowing down to look at screens
 Enchanting falsehoods of monotonic futures:
 There is no venas,
 Only cable;
 There is no speech,
 Solo textos;
 There is no humanness,
 Solo hay frío;
 There is no strength,
 Solo hay charging stations;
 There is no more impact,
 Only the shock will work;
 There is only numbness,
 No pain, no voice. 
 There is
 I am the YO. 
 There is no Joaquín, nor paper to write on, we are a slate waiting to be written on.

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