Enemies of the State

by George Moore

From sleep they fall into full awakening,
not of consciousness, its color blurred by the screen,
only a noise in the headphones like seashells,

but of being anywhere but here. They eat very little
in preparation for their own destruction.
The schools are breeding grounds for the insane.

Survival means being something like a terrorist,
at least a dissident, at least an extremist in dress,
in loose, haphazard sentences, resembling no one.

Like small shavings of wood curled in their heads
just before the postmodern fire, they feed
the flames of their own disinterest.

Our days pass into something unnamed, but they
are hopeful, the drum beats rise across the city,
they prepare to fight the enemies of the state.