MISSING REALITY

Missing Reality


Misanthropic topics of thought
Miscalculated, as most plugged in urban Neanderthals often do
By mischance 99.999 percent of bad logic comes from as much expanse
Misrule is the rule of thumb for miscreants devouring credit over levitation
Miscible and relatable to the shaved headed purists of non-thought
Miscellaneous detachments of the spirit, the overmind
Unmoved by the misfeasance of chemical gods and quick witted R&D departments
A misapprehension of desire, a loss of uniqueness, silence
Misogyny, and missals, over warm wine
Organized chaos, misnomers really, usually mistaken for a mise-en-scene
Missiles of thunderclaps and mission statements spread across the netscape
Good intentions, I’m sure
One must recall, that ego and source are entrenched in a miscegenation of fate
Stirred by the misbegotten issues of separation that escape even the heaviest
Petters of meditation, and petitioners of open sleep
Misgivings are concepts for “heavy water”(of which I refrain)

Even so, some of us miss the false sense of being
And being anchored to the fallacy

Because the truth is
The allure of non-fiction is often both illuminating and intensely lonely.

“all the world is a stage..”

CODES AND CODEX

Codes and Codex


Fluorescent flowers on a broken hill

Acid rain pellets on the corrugation

My shorted simware and shredded flack is dripping velvet on the linoleum

Saidye stitches steel like a Bonavista ironsmith

And smells like silver licorice, and oilsand. God, she’s beautiful

Severed links and several reboots later

I dive into a bowl of spicy Ramen and remember

To check in with Hazel


Regret and guilt-speak are always soon to follow
Embedded in a cacophonous series of clicks
And mice
(moms always know which buttons to press, don’t they?)

Five yards of router cable to fold before
Water touches my skin, and I’m purged again
Saidye amuses me with Catskill humour and Broadway stills
A symbol of her affection

I still see the sun over the Ivory Coast and wonder

How many weeks it’s been since I last saw the stars

Guillaume yelps a sorrowful goodbye

And wags his furry ass as he disappears for the night

One last M.O.S. diagnostic
3 sips of merlot
and 20 kilos for the Zaphrum later

I dream

Of big league hackers and towers of frozen secrets
Black silk on the brain.

TRANSFER

Transfer

The tunnels are loud with
Track rumbling and squeaky
Passengers, quick to fill seats
With tense plaids and warm wallets
We bustle and sway, zeroes and ones
On a centipede highway to Du College St.
And St. Louis Avenue
Frozen in subway time
Oblivious to the backward evolution above
Strangers with a common purpose
Bodies in linear motion, minds
Blistered with high speed thought
A static ad for travel whizzes by
And I wonder what would happen
If the world we remembered grew
Too old to recall our faces
And we disembarked to find
A faded landscape
And a new civilization
At the next stop

SPACE LACE

Space Lace

We watch the televised reconstruction
Of the space shuttle 'Ecstasy'
Streamlined by an all female crew
Revisionized exploration
Tweaked by the hemlines of a Venus persuasion
Working with galvanized gauntlets
Coloured as brilliantly as the Nebula
Stretched across their retro grade hull.

Thirteen long-legged voguettes
Invested, with fluorescent chip sets
And Quick-Time neural degrees in Bio E
Captivating a nation
In HD reality.

They charge strapless ions, these icons
Into a designer configuration that fit
A perfectly fashioned orbit
And defy the gravitational pull of a generation
Of men who thought
They owned space.

These foreign chiquitas, borrowed from galaxian
Seaports, accustomed to consorting alone
Were the new age heroines
Pressed in cashmere outer casings
Spacebots, originally dubbed
The Renaissance Cosmonaughts.

Premiere

Premiere

In the dark
Confines seek viewfinders
Elite in caliber, if not
Centered in self
Gathered in perfect sectionals
To watch
Bespeckled swatches of celluloid
Dance across the screen

We laugh in untimely unison
United by the commonality
Of characters playing
Common caricatures
In front of us

We trust them, some
To deliver the truths we dare
Not share, in daylight
With each other

Restless for an ending
That satisfies each lie
We actors tell ourselves is true
So that our patchwork neurosis
Never has to drink alone

And when the curtain rises
A smattering of cheer ignites
Into a raging applause

All the while
Our eyes beguiling,
Scanning the final edit
For a line of credit
To spend
A despised amount – when
The opportunity presents itself

Hopefully before the next
Hollywood premiere.

frost

Frost

Frost Design Organized
Purposeful Coordinated Perfection
Random Chaotic Massive
Contagious Independence Singularity
Awakening Agreement Validation
Conviction Assemblage Conformity
Monotony Behavioral Outcry
Distinction Rally Truth
Insect-Like Revamped Retold
Rebirth Perfection Coordinated
Purposeful Organized Design

Frost.

no thank you

NO Thank You


No peptides furrowing my brow No caressing a twisted psyche No filters evaporating consciousness No victims needing semen No spandex delusions No cinnamon nightmares
No albums of disdain No stone-age advancements of love No black bean farts No poinsettia diapers with butterfly fasteners that glow in the dark.

I’ll just have the special. Thanks.

UPDATES

Updates


Lonely foundry members floundering in metallic destitution

The truth about suburban fratricide is that it’s an urban legend

Liverish teens, parochial nightmares played out on a Neilson rated chessboard:

Rook to F5 at five.


Tinctures of spermicide on the el

Headed to Burnaby, then Roma (track sex)

Pureed suspects playing possum or plotting putschs in back alley pulp fictions


Specious reasoning escapes (like villains) the orgy of transparent evidence

Bought entirely with prepaid sponsors happy to peddle

Lira, shilling, rupee, and peso wares

To unaware materialists


A missing gingko


Disparaging stories and velvet lies, careful to sing rehearsed alibis in primetime

Cunnilingus

And barrows filled with dead innocence.


Full details at six.

LEFTOVERS

Leftovers


.red coat
.fortune cookie
.commodores
.porcelain princess
.frozen vegetables
.wonderwoman coaster
.obama button
.taxi magnet
.unfinished butt
.collection of poe
.and my fourth grade calculator
(that still works)

.all the things you left me
.when I refused to stay

TREE SPEAK

Tree Speak



Disheartened by a hole in Cyprus soldiers

Brittle and dry, skin like sand paper cartilage and molasses

Maple, missions failed on the back lot, fallen, like branches on a sandbar

A flicker of golden deliverance through clouds of underbrush

And a vine looses itself beyond the moor

Devils, pale green, hidden from sight, whispering victories on the North side

To anyone who’ll listen

Cones and lavender satchels are all that remain

Carried, great distances, by a trickling brook

Or a rushing bride

Quick to marry the remembered, and the forgotten

In transient harmony

I40

I40


Fire, burning
Monosyllabic curses
For early risers and savants
Shipping abjurated utility vehicles
Along trafficked routes


Smog made possible by highway turbulence and winding asphalt
Designed to a fault, and above one

Pacing resistance for reservoir dogs
Conscious
Of rescissible hygiene

!a spleen for the man in the red fiat!

{somewhere south of I40 a four wheeled virgin tempts 10 tons of copper and silk.}
{cue music.}


cacophonous horns yelling noxious profanities
over minute distances
lewd and unnecessary
a tabernacle of virtuous peculiarity


for when the day dissolves
and home beckons the tired and soulless
they repeat the pleonastic
tapestry of panic

in a sonnet made for sacrosanct cubists.

ICKY

ICKY


0prickly stilts still
0ficticious, as prickly stilts go
1sickle cell soot rarely embraces
3visions and fishy logic

0a pickle for two
1insidiously tough, but delicious
1in a fickle kind of way

0ceramic literature, dick-less and contrite
0sickly, with syphilis lips

2tryptofene fashion idioms
1cascading down islets and pish-posh
0heavy linens, an abyss
0I insist

0mysterious
0if it weren’t for indecisive ribbonfish
3listless for work

3they’re insistent on two-fisted apologies

3and porous divisions of tomorrow
1or maybe, just maybe

2

0 - simpletons just love ambergris.

Rhodesian Unification

Rhodesian Unification



Moldy snippets of transparent memories

Bright anecdotes and murmuring elephants

Swimming carefree in local waters and manmade lakes

- Kariba!


As I spin a series of web-like concertos

Into climactic synapses of clear thought


I wonder, and freefall 400 feet

Into my past, driven forward by the torrential waterfall

Of voices, ancestral markers


To settle in the Zombezi River

(the Kololo People call “mosi-oa-tunya”

or, “smoke that thunders”)


I revisit a village in the autumn of my youth

With wide-eyed sorrow and haunting joy


Huts of straw and necessity, with walls woven

In a timber wood orchestration, an emotional fabric

Over and under, chorus and verse


Beyond that, a man, seated, regally

In a folded chair faded green, as he surveys the night sky

Putting the stars to bed, one by one

His eyes, a reflection of my own, sharing my pain and loss

And deep hopefulness for a peaceful resolve

To my nation’s turmoil


As the amputated trunks and dry kindle illuminate

His face, and bespeak of praise for Makaha

And for the people of Zimbabwe


The Grass greens, and I recall

Our unyielding soil and forgiving crops

In my one tractor town


Tigere, my best friend, and one of the thousands of guerillas

Who were integrated into a national military faction

An involuntary contraction for ZANLA

(Zimbabwe African National Liberation Army)

A kettle for internal madness and cascading violence

That defined The Patriotic Front


And in a crystalline flash of repressed misfortune

The recollection of Tigere’s death deafens me

His killer, a soul-less 18 year old ZANU

With a 9mm Soviet

And one less bullet



The pool shimmers, and I embrace the image

Of a woman with child

Swaying in a sea of Zimbabwean Nationalists

Waving our flag in exuberance, in a stadium outside

Salisbury, during one of the many Independence Day

Celebrations held across my country, on my birthday

April 18th, Of all days



I remember the look on her face, and see the memory

In her eyes, every time I come home

And see my little girl’s smile, as she counts

The stars on a clear Zimbabwean night.

wIReS

Wires

I move like pistoned drivers
Pounding the high rail skywires
With superfoil lightning
Skimming over skyscraper overpasses
To avoid Central City traffic
Bypassing the sub-city deluge that
Suffers the dregs of close quarter suffocation

When I reach the narrow patchwork
Of multi-current cable stations, I switchback
To Tri-gears, slowly, to speed my ascent
Magnetized momentum they call it -
Supersonic nightmares,
Always follow, but who can question
The sensation of flight at the cost of ten G's
Showering my Kisco contours

UBC steering kicks in, and my cortex responds
With firewire reflexes, synthetic synapses
Compiling directional data in silicon flashes

Triad Corp jacked me up good
But the version is as old as I am, so I feel
Tripsters hacking past me with the gem stuff
Freezing neon cables before I even
See them, rather sense them

The light show blisters into 100bit brilliance
Drawing saline from my dry ducts, every time
I cross the threshold, into Heavenhood
And descend rapidly through cumulative aromas
Of old town ethnicities - Curry Corner
And the Seven Seas, My home

And as I channel surf the Bark and succumb
To urban progressions - I can already hear
Mrs. Coolridges heartwarming histrionics
When I dock, waiting with a warm bowl of Teriyaki
Sushi and some purge cords behind her back

Home is where the hardwire ends.

SIGNES DES TEMPS

Signes des temps

Windy sowing, repentant sorrows
Uplifting things and complete silence
Crafty people acknowledging triumphs
Idyllic footfalls withholding
Floral forfeits guilt-ridden for love
Folded values chipping gaudy prose
Visceral torrents, exuberant shallows
Silver diamonds forgetting secrets
Marrow feeding shadowy gossip
Inlets sweeping jagged expectations
Wavy horrors inviting pity
Gathering inches over eternity

These are signs of the times.

Another Poem Covering The Joyous Inauguration

Old Glory New Hope


Gratuitous, old glory, flapping odorless
Excitement across borderless continents, the contents
Of which has never been seen, bright patchwork
And ideological capitals

Thousands. Badging betters, sweeping the mall
1.4 mill strong, and growing, 5 inch dreams
Cascading presidential rubber
Over concrete ambition, (at intervals)

Vehicular juggernaughts are on the Hill now.

As generational icons cross under 30 candles
And a twenty gun salute…

A trumpet sounds, sailors dance with delicate attention
Beyond the pull of frenzied flags, a patriotic blur escapes
That which follows, a charming entrance, a fleeting chant
Preceding a pastoral dedication, facilitating
A musical tribute, scraping the convexed american canvass

Onlookers absorbing special increments, in time

The rotunda, pleased to receive
Vocal and orchestral objectives marrying
A floral accent that defies all circular logic

Goodwill avails the day

Flourishing in perpetual infinity.

Music

Music

Fast paced lyrical straights
Pushing drumbeats into dark ghetto
Grottos, spitting half-life synthetics
Into head thrashing mouths
Hopped up
On Trip-Hop, and Speed Metal

Green liquid fill the shots
Of grunge-green patrons, swimming in stasis
Green Sleep
Strobbed out - As acid
Backbeats drain the human element
From the crowd, moving in synergetic
Motion, Too loud to hear
Made to repeat, a feeling of breathing
By the fingertips of spinning tsars
Serrating chips of samples
Flipped in reverse
Dipped in digital, sickness
Vinyl Bliss, that's it
Rockin' the masses, thirsty for scratches
Beyond the f**k speed disease
But catchy.

Turning even the most reclusive wall rat
Into a maniacally dope - 100 watt strobe.

Dakota Rain

Dakota Rain


North Dakota shivers with demographic erosion

lactic notions homesteaders delivered

to the plains and frozen acreage

expecting rain and frozen prosperity to follow

the plow


once teeming settlements across the Midwest

expanse, grassland economics demarcating

an 1880’s promise

to sow hope for a new generation of Euro natives

imprinting the flow of bison and wild mint footprints

across the land that forsook them


1908 brought gusts of despair to desperate ironworkers

and despondent farmers who watched their extemporal

settlements succumb to wet depression

and evaporating grains

the railroads threaded throughout the North Dakotan canvass

painted yellow buttercups and a thriving trade

to a doomed bottomland of patriotic conversions


Norwegian and German learners of the American way

on the high plains and snowy valleys

the dust storms devoured what the rain left behind

and worse, non sequiturs – precipitating

consistent torchings of holy edifices

sometimes abandoned, like many practitioners

of the word


decayed schoolhouses and empty grain elevators

frame the countryside now, void of knowledge

and common courtesy

for the seeds of tomorrow


ghosts and galvanized wringers

loneliness and third generation ruin


wall-less farms and homeless cattle

dismembered dolls and constant funerals


frozen wheat and basement nooses

dead badgers and gutted Fords


the North Dakotan expanse is rife

with indescribable beauty, unmoved

by a shifting economy and barren wasteland


waiting…

…for rain.

A Glorious Image

A Glorious Image

.the image. of progression.
.an effigy. fitting. a slender statuette.
.of change. visceral and biting. a presidential
.euphemism. cheering.
.a ringing endorsement.
.carried. on the pinions. of impassioned. applause.
.arisen. riding a wave. of boisterous
.euphoria.
.forefather speak. a preeminent exception.
.as elections go. and visionaries, bold.

.the man. momentous. a badge, that honours.
.patent expectations. & compacted decisions.
.for an inclusive future.

.capital minds. foraging,
.for tomorrow wood.
.eyes. averted. from black silk. and gossamer promises.

.a discarded futility.
.a pantomime embrace.
.well deserved. and well earned.
.by all.

.a goodness, fathomable. an exaltation. long.
.and necessary.
.sentimental. crochets. interwoven.
.into the fabric of forgiveness.
.hopeful. united.

.oval. predilections. in an oral function.
.crucial. for peaceable. permanence.
.once thought impertinent. once.

.the image shifts, and tomorrow is.
.now.

.the effigy. is our own. and the moment.
.remains.

.unfolding. and. unforgettable.

Historical Day

Today, history made me.

Today I watched an "ideal" shape a consciousness. I observed a nation embrace a concept, and a world lay a foundation for change.

A political upheaval and prospective look for a country aside, today was also a day to celebrate the common man. A generational and cultural evocation of spiritual progression, that resonates with every person who has ever embodied the title "underdog".

The forgotten, the down-trodden, and the oppressed, the multicoloured and multi-national, all know this feeling. Obscured from view. For every entity slighted by tyranny, or inequality, hatred or indifference, we are made stronger today. Whether your charter embraces individuality, nonconformity, or if you exist on the fringes of society, as an ascetic, a minority of many, or a class of few, as an outworlder not by choice, or perhaps exiled to the extremities of the common minded, or not-so colour blind, today we revel in the acceptance of change: body, mind, and spirit.

We celebrate the ascension of one man, a mirrored representation, a familiar silhouette, seen by many as an underdog, one of us, to the highest station in the land. His triumph signifies our own. A victory that overrides any notion of creed, colour, nationality, or belief. And although wholeness begins from the inside out, the world around us has become that much more inclusive, inviting, tolerant. We've been made stronger.

Today, history made us.

Better.

WELCOME!

Hello, All!

My name is Jose Holder and I'll be your guide into the mad musings of Holderology : The Science Of Word. Okay, actually, this will be a home for displaying my written works, with a clear emphasis on poetry. But you've got to admit, Holderology sounds cooler.

Basically, this branch of undiscovered science was created to highlight my literary side. And for those of you familiar with the artistic exploits of my alter ego "JohJames", he, or rather we, will still be creating pics for the masses. We'll just be wearing separate hats from here on out. He takes up too much room at home as it is. Time to hit the skids, Junior!

Poetry, short stories, and the occasional script have taken a front seat in my life, and I felt it was high time I share a little science with anyone who'll listen. It, that is to say "writing", challenges me in ways perspective and anatomy never could, and I welcome the chance to flex my fingers and pour some prose onto the Net at large. Writing fulfills a part of me creatively that serves to expand the boundaries of who I am, and ultimately, where I'm going as an artist and as a human being. It's more than a cathartic path to enlightenment. It's an expression of my metamorphosis, my unraveling of self and self thought, a record of my single-minded progression into freedom. Freedom from labels. Freedom from self-doubt. From self-made purgatories and from the ego itself. I've spent a lifetime stripping my world of expectations, of labels, and hunger for material growth. Now I'm ready to create from a place of stillness. Now I write from silence.

This is an exercise in ego exorcism. This is the science of my word.

This is Holderolgy.