To begin with, these photos are not graffiti or collages, which is a frequent response that attempts to classify them. These are undoctored (with the exception of Photoshop enhancements) photos of posters, decals and other paper forms of pop advisements that have been damaged by man, weather, and time. The most effective rely on the “happy accident,” that occurs when two or more of these ads find an unintended, interesting relationship, and, thus, become something new. My vision is very much in line with earlier forms of surrealism, which emphasized odd juxtapositions. This search for unexpected meanings can also be traced back to William Burroughs’ cut-ups in the fifties. I also feel a kinship with Basquiat. There may come a time when I mix my poetry with the images. But not now.
These photos in the Legendary are from the Valencia Series. Every region and city seems to treat public advertisements differently, and it’s been my experience that the farther south one goes into France, Spain, and Italy, the richer the sources of material. Southern cities tend to still paste posters one over another and leave them up until they fully deteriorate. This is still the case in Berlin, however, probably because of its relatively recent membership in the free world. Old world countries are less interested in being tidy. In areas of Germany, where I live, many of the city magistrates require that posters be attached with tape, so that they can be removed easily, which works against my vision. I’m interested in the left for dead, the forgotten, the diseased, the remnants, the archeological contexts. My photos seek to resurrect.
I only ever take vertical shots, and I only takes photos of paper. This is my contract. In a similar way, all my poems are twelve lines. I have found my vision and my voice in these frames, in these reins, as Frost would have it. - John Kay
Photography (September 21, 2009. Issue 9.)
Valencia 16
Valencia 17
Valencia 8
Valencia 36
Valencia 19
Valencia 6
The Face (October 20, 2009. Issue 10.)
That knew the grass was dying.
That kissed and kept on kissing.
That swallowed the golden hook,
but spit it back. That saw God,
but fought Mortality. The face
in the window, but not its ghost.
The face squinting into the abyss.
The face approaching with a blade,
but passing. The face with a cigarette,
but not Marlene Dietrich. The face
of pain reflected in water everywhere,
--the face of Charles Bukowski
Three Poems (September 21, 2009. Issue 9.)
Song
Driving home in the rain,
headlights, the road glaring,
after years of heading off
cancer, dodging heart problems,
I fall asleep on the Autobahn
and wake up dead. A little
shaken, I begin to look over
my life--when the phone rings.
It’s my dear, long-dead mother
singing me back to sleep with
a lullaby--but this time, surely,
her song won’t click off.
After "The Reader"
Have empathy. Just a boy,
he may never have slept
without pajamas or had his
hand up a woman’s dress.
He thinks--I came to act,
but I’m falling in love--with
Kate Winslet. Will this rush
of blood to the groin, this need
to blast the horn, infect the
dreams of his other women.
Probably. But he’s better off
for having kissed her breasts.
Ghost
I’d never kissed or touched
a woman’s breasts--so when
you walked across the room,
at nineteen, unbuttoning your
jeans and blouse, as I sat on
the edge of the bed--I didn’t
know that my handwritten
kisses would die in unopened
letters, that your ghost would
be born out of long absence,
that first love was perishing
at that very moment.