We speak in coded language, our lexicon a trashy remix set to the rhythm of a second-line on a Gloomy Sunday morning:

Theater of the Oppressed meets Paul Robeson meets Frankenstein meets Victoria Woodhull in a raging social warfare zone.
Movements roll in cycles and we are the antidote to an apathetic society.

Yes! I’d kiss the floor you walk on;
Unfortunately  I’m too much of a wallflower to leave my post;
And my knees are already bruised from Imperialism, Capitalism, and  American Oligarchy.

I’m beyond intoxicated:
Too much moonshine.
I can barely sleepwalk a straight line.

Our coded language co-opted:
Revolution reduced screen watching;
Activism now a click, a poke, and a like;
Love, a emoticon;
Lust,  a memory;
Only isolation remains.