“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 acapucha 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 complicityoes. 

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. 

WHO STAYS QUIET AND WHY? 

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 

SHADE 

DE FORGOTTEN 

NOSOTROS. 

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 industriamuerta del filmemexicano, 

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 
No  
I 

I am the YO. 

There is no Joaquín, nor paper to write on, we are a slate waiting to be written on.