1.
Sweeping up the syllables
of a lost translation:

the sole evidence of fraternization
between the vapid ghosts
of a muddled lexicon,
and epiphanies from plastic
obelisks, that bleed concrete.

Maybe some reincarnated scribe
stirring in obscurity
(or some colloquial modernity)
will unzip a lisp in the lingo;
surrealistic syntax
and opportune slang
in abbreviated contexts.

Harken to the muses immortal,
who produce and direct the dialect
of every generation, including
the one too casual for oracles
to get poetic points across.

2.
Now the poems have to emulate fantasies
and the moods that ignited them must be resigned
to running their encyclopedic course up and down
any pattern of frustration the feathered talons of my temper
incline to latch on to.

No more knocking on the doors of reading eyes
with abstract diplomacy to share
in a copulate of meaning that unfurls in the foreplay
of adverbs too excessive to incite power-play orations.

Not that I lay claim to power in my poetry
but I lament the buoyancy of meaning when
the trench is where the books are read.