Crash

Words meet in thunderous impact, a sonic cacophonic attack,
jack-knifing through your eardrums, rumbling through your chest,
and you anticipate the rest with bated breath.

It's an 18 syllable pileup but it's no accident.
It's a poetic axe - hellbent on smashing a rent through the fabric of a complacent mind.

You hear that?
It's the basso boom of the gasoline tank of the tongue going up in stereophonic flames.
The concussive force of this ballad's blast breaks through the barricade of boredom

It crashes through glass windshields of mass ignorance,
And shards of shining syntax penetrate the cerebrum
And here there are no airbags of empty MTV soundbites,
No cushion of cotton-candy cable tv,
No pablum opiates of over-produced American Idols pandering panaceas to bleeding ears
No seatbelt that will save you from the sibilant soundwaves that meet in destructive interference
No, there is nothing to protect you from this incoming contact that creates a craters out of chests

And now your mind is a wreck that needs to be checked over
by the paramedics of prose who apply bandages of passionate poetry,
sutures of sincere sentences
They perform CPR of rhythm and beat,
flailing the chest and ribs creak with its marvelous movement and meter,
It's a Mouth-to-mouth of Milton, Mary Shelley or some Margaret Atwood
It's First aid of Faust and they're pushing in an IV of iambic pentameter,
Quick! you need 10ccs of Tennyson, or some epinephrine of the epic that Eliot wrote.

They're rushing you to the hospital in an ambulance of alliteration
You're in the ER of Emerson
And the doctors of diction are working feverishly to stop the flatlining of the imagination
Because it's just been in a car crash of creative force