Pot Helps pt. 18 (Sun-Soaked)

It's when I'm mid-west’d and sun-soaked, just going through the motions, when I can hear as clear as the shore water is after the sun breaks from the clouds and shines its justice through the murky brown, children's laughter, soon to be stifled children's laughter, my very own two half-cousins’ laughter and when I lay in a loft, dreaming of revelatory goodness and of grandparent's hugs and familial respect I let go of one more optimistic inflated balloon and peek out of the window nestled in a triangle to watch it soar. I am in here. Like when I was one part of one hundred thousand, a cog dipped in khaki clothing, crammed into a chartered jet to hear an intercommunication system used with disenchantment to praise the zeitgeist of military action with the power of magnetic coils and pulses of either light or electricity, pulses that inform us we are to feel proud; that the mileage-laden attendants of such a voyage towards perhaps certain death have informed me that they are at the first and very least grateful for our eventual ascension to becoming ghosts of uncertain death in the name of a now two-hundred-plus year old emptiness known as freedom, but if you were like me and translated what was coming out of those electric-powered magnetic coils you would hear: ‘I'm just glad it isn't me.’ Like when it's what might as well be one hundred thousand years later and I'm sun-soaked in the back of a car listening to, but not absorbing, constipated appraisals of my survival made to sound empathetic if only to put on a costume and act a certain way, the same approach they take to parenting when they do their best to assemble psyches for the purpose of willfully joining slavery, what with their contrasting use of negative and positive reinforcement that now justifies with perversion their stifling of the children's laughter, the only damn thing those kids have left.