Buried Alive The dirt in my nose mouth and ears And one hears the small voices The sun has fallen And the moon is sullied And the skin and the limbs Are boiling And one is in their tomb or prison While they can still dream and move freshly People have forgotten how to live Or people never lived So we are in the same in dilemma: I waste my days so that I won’t starve As all the cops watch me on My free hours And I read Vallejo and Neruda and Kirkegaard And think that there are some people who have Lived and got it all right And the others? So many of the others… Well you walk down the streets and Hear the music coming from the cars And for a time one can forget about Chekhov, Turgenev And Dos; and the people they wrote about Then you walk into a gas station and There’s a small silence and the patrons Are weary looking and the cashier Is clearly stressed or frustrated Then it hits you—the people on the Russian page As she puts up a stoical voice and a stoical face While you try on your stoical face and voice But it doesn’t seem to work Then you suck on your tongue and laugh To remind yourself that you are Still alive