The advantage of a combustible sow
in a minor league park has everything to do with closeness.
Rockets are launched from center field and one
is pinned below explosions, the neck and head
thrown back vertically to see, the axis of a spinning top,
dizzy but focused on the same instant.
On a baseball Sunday, even as the home team lost,
a planned fireworks show went on anyway
in high style for nearly twenty minutes.
Upon this singular communal trance nexus
I began to see with laboratory eyes
the chemical complexion bursting forth
in greater and lesser palettes of cannon shot
representing not a visual alembic
of past spectacles but my corollary Spirit Language—
permutations concretely arranged, achieving
the physical notion that the word ‘pyrotechnic’ conveys
about a certain style. SL, whether rawly done
in inked characters or transliterated
through neologistic ‘pata English,
has the just such of pyrotechnics at its core.
So these firework meanings do lift
HB Hotel to a rough-cut level
where visual art resides, network topology
reaches unfettered a fecund storehouse
where live incendiary consonants,
vowels, gutturals, glossolalia—I participate,
wielding traditional tools. Present
in a purely omphalic multiplicity of worlds,
a navel projecting language strands, thus stranded,
Happy Book Hotel is a Western frontier.
Are names words? Created in wholes,
a scroll happens where names make a boy
enter the 13th Grade and prophesy
only to live again sporting a death scar
in a sports death car. I race to mean!
