I took my few bad apples
to the zoo
to show them
animal behavior;
They read the manual
and between the lines,
savored case history
blow by blow accounts.
In an airplane on the way
to the garden district
I sat them with
the chatty SAS brass
who'd had the chance
to extract intelligence
from real terrorists,
back in the day:
both practicum in
and sample of
the treatment. I took
their sense away.
I planted my few bad apples
in desert cages, circled
in a field of fire,
fertilized with raw
rag-head hate
bathed in the vinegar sweat
of retribution;
I peppered them
with uranium,
pressed them into
moral ambiguity,
and ordered them bear
actionable fruit.
When that poisonous tree
blossomed, I cut a shoot
and brought it home.