One day some years ago,
I crafted fifteen hundred
alter egos
and I set each loose
in its own way
upon Instagram
to see what the people
would like
Today, all I can think about
is what I meant by would like --
did my tens of thousands
follow me because of how
they already were
or because of what I said --
am I food coloring
to their glasses of water
or a flashlight
coming through their glasses --
What I do know now
is this:
language is a fickle frame
a square peg for a flower petal hole
tickled better by the softer landings
of a yellow-black real time touch --
Language and its horses
cry hoarsely into harsh mediums
massaging messages
in spite of the value
of a warm, silent messenger
Roman Ryan 