the new march is a digital beat,
a protest flash in a fever heat.
not boots on ground,
but thumbs on glass,
a revolution meant to pass.

a scroll,
a swipe,
a dance of rage,
a new face for an ancient stage.
the algorithm feeds the fire,
fulfilling every deep desire.

to be the rebel,
pure
and true,
in sixty seconds,
fresh and new.
the green screen shows the bombed-out street,
then cuts to something soft and sweet.

tiktik,
toktok,
twelve percent oracle,
seven percent yass,
yes,
and yeast,
the pendulum swings,
between the grave and trivial things.
a million views for a bleeding land,
slipping like water through the hand.

they saw the tide begin to rise,
the new light
in a million eyes.
so rather than confront the shout,
they simply bought the hollowed-out.

the data flows,
a silent stream,
to fulfill a corporate dream.
the rebel’s shout,
the poet’s plea,
are just more content,
endlessly.

tiktik,
toktok,
the clock runs down,
on the new street
of the new town.
he revolution,
packaged neat,
with a steady,
metronomic beat.