arbeit macht frei

it was before we spoke, that i was concerned.  in that dying light before.  and now arbeit macht frei flees poland and my eyes cry into a google map, sick with loss, difference longing.  for sorrow in another place, and words, when my own have dried up  in this vow, the less than nothing.
when you had me laid out in the horrors of a new day, displaying what was a parade of words, and i told you, i spent all day typing words i don't believe, words i wrote years ago, before the end.
and deletions haunt me so, the deleted ways we have ticked out our existence, sad behind the masks of surveillance.
i woke to hear, your father is dead.
and i said, good.
good.
as good as dead and none the different for the words he has for me.
as you now too, lost friend have slinked back into silence, where deadly, i write letters as if these keys were some harpsichord, when the sounds of tongues are so meaningless to me, in the horrors of your indifference.
and could i recapture a myth, a poesy, it would have a human face or hands.  like my father trapped statewise, in the untimely ways of wars he raised me in, perpetual wars, horrors, and the earth death besetting the globe, explosion, after explosion, and human flesh flying straight into the mouths of cannibals.
and these are words from my hands not my mouth.
yes this is what i am thinking.
everything else was lies.