Poets are a village group speaking this language. Some wear straw-like roofing material. Thatching. And mossy shoes. Some own the wells and wait for trains.
Why not accept a group that tolerates all babbling abstraction without any "irritable grasping after fact." Another group might handily work with tools.
Have coffee with a group. Talk about anything except the roaring that goes off as art into the bushes and comes back with a funny expression.
Sit around and say any undulant thing ... any number of things you could smoke.
Because the coolest had turned its back. It's insulting enough to have found each other through the aggregator and settled by the river.
Place the camera in a rocking boat.
Then think—just think—how everybody is looking for clearer cluttered speech. And it's only a matter of time.