I’m sorry but Mom said I should never apologize for disaster or the hanging gardens, mass graves. “The dead are dead,” she said, smoking. “They’re dead.”
I told her to go to hell but she refuses persecution, tin woman, all hands down. I love her and all but she doesn’t understand Hammurabi’s code or the power of the Euphrates, a crown of thorns, or Karma. She doesn’t understand the connection between Babylon and Unitarianism, Christ and Christmas— that is one couldn’t have existed without the other. I’m just a thorn in her side and a snitch, a girl-child, the Wicked Wild Witch of the West.
“Someone is wearing Nebuchadnezzar’s crown,” I said “Someone is having sex behind the Ishtar Gate, fucking below the gates of history.” “You’re fucking nuts,” she said. “Stop watching Star Wars.” (I didn’t really say fucking but mom did and I thought it would have a bigger impact when you read it.)
Dear Babylon, I apologize for the war, yes, the current war. I apologize for the tunnels, the scraping and the leveling, the digging and cutting beneath your toes. I’m sorry for Abu Ghraib too but I’m not supposed to be political, at least that’s what they say on TV, hush money. Rose-colored glasses.
If the prisoner dies in prison from blows or maltreatment, the master of the prisoner shall convict the merchant before the judge. If he was a free-born man, the son of the merchant shall be put to death; if it was a slave, he shall pay one-third of a mina of gold, and all that the master of the prisoner gave he shall forfeit. Hammurabi’s Code No. 116
Dear Babylon, I’m sorry for the pot smoking and the Marlboro light butts, marine life. I’m sorry for the pit stops and urine breaks. I’m sorry for what is still buried beneath the desert, the possible secret sex tapes and torture memos, Coca Cola bottles and our beloved Burger King. I’m sorry for my apology but I have to make it seem pro-West to avoid stones and witchcraft, hunters and werewolves. God bless.
If any one place his property with another for safe keeping, and there, either through thieves or robbers, his property and the property of the other man be lost, the owner of the house, through whose neglect the loss took place, shall compensate the owner for all that was given to him in charge. But the owner of the house shall try to follow up and recover his property, and take it away from the thief. Hammurabi’s Code No. 125
Dear Babylon, who will claim your corn? Who will recover your trinkets and artifacts? It’s hotter than hell, I’m sure, but I’m here to say there are no excuses for trenches or 500-ton bombs, strippers or wholesale prostitution, unless taxed. Mom bought me a new bra today but somehow it doesn’t support me the way I expected. Burn baby, burn. Victoria Secret and spandex don’t mix and Marines are my secret hope, Sweet Lips. If they only knew I love them as much as mom does.
Dear Babylon, where is Helen of Troy? Mom’s cigs and six pack? The Twin Towers of Babel?