ISHTAR.

After days of being driven in the desert sun

like livestock but with cruelty—

hook in nose, whip to back, no falling behind

we arrive at our fabled destination

and I think no thoughts of my own. I can’t…

because the gate is designed to make up my mind.

She is blue like the sea and squirming with monsters

she belongs to Ishtar, trampler of lions,

the warrior goddess who does take prisoners

lots of them, lots of us, our lot has been cast

to enter her house, her city, her keep

her womb—and be reborn in her image.

It looms tall and stands out from the mud brick city

as a warning of hollowed, deathly hollows

to those who will not kiss her signet ring—

see the dragon, the lion, the bull,

and sense fertility, love, sex, war, frenzy.

Amalgamate! or seal your fate as a suffering servant.

After days of being driven in the desert sun

like a way to make a dollar but with cruelty

billboard, web funnel, attention traded for soul—

we arrive at our ancient lamentation

and I think no thoughts of my own. I can’t…

because the gate is burned in my mind across time.

I’ve seen her before, step down from her lions’ back

and swallow a culture whole for a snack—

while blood drips down her supermodel chin

she stares you dead in the soul and grins

at a people who long ago lost the word “sin”

and crafted gods of ourselves and cannot begin

to understand the danger of her city.

Ishtar… whispers her bed is not far from the crowds

and when she takes you there, she devours—

eats you alive and left with glazed dead eyes

breathing but some other thing lives inside your skin

and you are looking for a next product or purchase.

Assimilate or feel the full weight of empire’s

ability to bleed you out without pity.

And worse, this generation thinks the flood is a myth

and Ishtar’s gate is full of corporation and brands

or Amazon orders you don’t remember placing.

all while tsunami bombs fall on stretches of beach,

that would be picturesque save for our overreach—

and we are still haunted by ancient waters.

Because it’s no longer about a warrior’s code.

You claim your kleos in an entirely different mode—

it’s the brand on your fleece, it’s the new lease

barely afforded it so that at Friday night lights

you’re in that car in plain sight— it’s subtle. so we carry on

but it is a whole lot harder to leave Babylon.

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BE WHO YOU PRETEND TO BE.

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ARROWS AND MOUNTAINS.