9/11, a day I'm not particularly indebted to, nor necessarily mournful of.
A day that receives slews of plaudits, recognitions, approbations, invectives, reminiscions, and whatever else might suit.
Wreaths shucked at tombs after the hour's masturbatorial oration, after the day's next pledge of propaganda.
I'm indifferent, but I daresay the boy in this letter isn't.
His name will not be disclosed, nor will be the father's from whom I received it after his son wrote him upon touching down his helicopter on the burning sands.

Dear Dad and Ivy,

Just got in from a 4 hour mission over Baghdad. I saw the whole city from the air. Baghdad is one of the most dirtiest places I have ever seen. The pollution there makes you sick. The air just above the city is a thick yellow/brown smog haze. The smell of burning trash, refineries, and a strong smell of plastic burning are overwhelming. The smog stays jsut above the city and it's so thick that it hides towers, airplanes and, of course, helicopters easily. It is a busy city however, I witnessed traffic james, outdoor markets and people by the millions going about there daily lives. I also witnessed the U.S. soldiers on patrol, by foot and armored vehicles. The most vivid thing I saw was the Green Zone. You always hear about the green zone on tv. It's the cleanest part of the city. It has a look of a resort with its swimming pools, restaurants, parks, well kept buildings, and last but not least, big walls to keep Trash out. In short, Baghdad is a shit-hole with an infrastructure that was exceeded long time ago. The buildings that were bombed during the first days of this war are still there. It is a strong testament of the power and precision of those big black flying wings back at Whiteman (a local missouri air-base and missile siloh), the B2s. I also saw where bombs went through the top of a building and from the outside nothing appears unusual however on the inside there are no floors, no walls and no people. The entire insides of the building disappeared into a crater below the building. Well, I have some pictures for proof that I was in Baghdad. That's got to be worth something.
That's all for now, time for bed.

Love, Son

--

The helicopters have AC, I'm told by the father, though this is irrelevant in the triple-digit hell-holes that had propellers slapped on (which he'd just coincidentally spent 4 hours in). The constant carousal of dusts across the dunes, and occasional harangues, corrode the numerous, miniscule parts that still remain essential enough to kill whenever they malfunction, as occurs on a regular basis.
He wants his son home, but he's resigned to the possibility of having his wish granted by a flag-drapped pine box.

At least, however, I can't help but think as he barrels on into the many injustices of master to commander in this our just and noble cause, pine is a fragrant wood, smooth to the touch as well. Perhaps it will aid in the masking of fermaldihide stench once his son finally comes home. One can only hope, in any case.