Archive for the ‘Writing’ Category

Hindsight

Monday, December 28th, 2015

Play it where it lays.
Do what I says.
This is not a phase
but a way to stay and gaze
into the haze
of wasted nights and forgotten days.

Midnight in bed I plead and praise
for I fear the everlasting blaze,
but even more the endless craze
of knowing that there were ways
to avoid this cowards maze.

Suicidal poem
HCMC Crisis Unit, Minneapolis
February 2013

Internal Auslander #2 – Old Soldier

Friday, September 23rd, 2011
Internal Auslander #2 - Old Soldier

Internal Auslander #2 - Old Soldier

Internal Auslander #2 – Old Soldier

Description: Two friends from high school set out on a camping trip. One has gone to college and the other to war. They walk the same dirt paths but their minds are elsewhere and before them is a black night and a half-ton oak log. On what level are they willing to meet?

Cover by Karl Noyes. Story from life by Franz Fleinsasser. Paper collages by Karl Noyes.

Available in e-zine form for download and good ol’ tangible paper.
$3.00 shipping included if you use the Paypal link. It costs a little more if you use Amazon.

Purchase the physical copy by using this button:

Or:

Purchase on Amazon
E-zine version is available here.

Internal Auslander #1 – Sap

Friday, September 23rd, 2011
Internal Auslander #1 - Sap

Internal Auslander #1 - Sap

Internal Auslander #1 – Sap

Description: Franz Fleinsasser starts off his “Internal Auslander” series with a story about sap, that sweet sticky stuff and an encounter with Roughneck, a character whose marriage offers nothing but the cold comfort of a vise.

Cover by David Moreira. Story from life by Franz Fleinsasser. Paper collages by Karl Noyes.

Available in e-zine form for download and good ol’ tangible paper.
$3.00 shipping included if you use the Paypal link. It costs a little more if you use Amazon.

Purchase the physical copy by using this button:

Or:

Purchase on Amazon
E-zine version is available here.

Breaking Away from the Herd Zine #4 – CCC Part II

Friday, September 23rd, 2011
Breaking Away from the Herd Zine #4 - CCC Part II

Breaking Away from the Herd Zine #4 - CCC Part II

Breaking Away from the Herd Zine #4 – CCC Part II

Description: CCC Part II continues the story of Kevin Hagen’s encounter with millionaire socialite. Has he found his true love? Can one’s soul be nourished in a relationship born from one wild and crazy night? Follow Hagen’s story through visions of Alaska and the fog of love

Cover by Ann Onimous. Story from life by Kevin Hagen. Paper collages by Karl Noyes.

Available in e-zine form for download and good ol’ tangible paper.
$3.00 shipping included if you use the Paypal link. It costs a little more if you use Amazon.

Purchase the physical copy by using this button:

Or:

Purchase on Amazon
E-zine version is available here.

Breaking Away from the Herd Zine #3 – Virginia Marks

Friday, September 23rd, 2011
Breaking Away from the Herd Zine #3 - Virginia Marks

Breaking Away from the Herd Zine #3 - Virginia Marks

Breaking Away from the Herd Zine #3 – Virginia Marks

Description : “Virginia Marks” is no “On the Road” but the elements are the same : wild hearted males hit the American highway. Meet Buffalohead Sue, the baby sitter, and the leopardess Vicki in this tale of desperation, drugs, and disgust.

Cover by Eric Rogers. Story from life by Kevin Hagen. Paper collages by Karl Noyes.

Available in e-zine form for download and good ol’ tangible paper.
$3.00 shipping included if you use the Paypal link. It costs a little more if you use Amazon.

Purchase the physical copy by using this button:

Or:

Purchase on Amazon
E-zine version will be available next week.

Breaking Away from the Herd Zine #2 – CCC Part I

Friday, September 23rd, 2011
Breaking Away from the Herd Zine #2 - CCC Part I

Breaking Away from the Herd Zine #2 - CCC Part I

Breaking Away From the Herd Zine #1

Description : The second issue of “Breaking Away from the Herd” is a doozy. Focused on one wild night, this first of a three part series has its share of sex, giant cab drivers, and graphic lusting but doesn’t leave you without a deeper message.

Cover by Joe Cunningham. Story from life by Kevin Hagen. Paper collages by Karl Noyes.

Available in e-zine form for download and good ol’ tangible paper.
$3.00 shipping included if you use the Paypal link. It costs a little more if you use Amazon.

Purchase the physical copy by using this button:





Or:

Purchase on Amazon
E-zine version will be available next week.

The Laziest Soldier

Friday, June 3rd, 2011

From atop his highest mountain, King Yat attacked. His wings bore him with an easy power which he flung as great sharks whip their tails. Thus he swam into a steep plunge, plowing downward; a driven nail. All his armies looked up in fear and amazement and they cheered, for the laziest soldier was about to die.

In the valley below, that soldier knew it at once as his comrades pushed away from him, fleeing in all directions. So he stood alone, encircled, and gawked about in terror at the sky. Down came Yat in a swoop, in a blink of flashing sword and was gone into the clouds. All that remained was an arm and a boot. The rest rocketed up, only to be caught by the hair at the apex of ascent and beheaded for all to see; the body dropping away into the distance.

The roar of applause was immense. It shook the valley. Yat felt this upon his wings and he raised the soldier’s head high with a sneer and then flung it, still living, into space. Then casually he flicked away low over the troops, just out of bow range. Arrows rose like prayers and followed him as he laughed, darting to and sweeping fro. His minions loved him and at dawn he would hurl them at his enemy, conquer and feast in the evening.

King Yat! They hailed him, and he knew, already, which was the next one to die. Fetch my spear, he mused.

Last Show at the Conventicle

Wednesday, June 1st, 2011

…And the cops still haven’t showed up – after over a year of operation and hosting dozens of bands traveling through the Twin Cities the house venue has decided to disband. The tenants put together a line up with several bands for the closing show to ensure they did not end on a soft note, like a punk house with a DIY ethic should.

I had apparently pulled up to the house just in time, Punk Standard Time (where shows typically start almost two hours after scheduled), to see almost a hundred folks sprawling out from the back deck door winding down the steps and out to the lawn. However, for a change the schedule started a bit early and Fuck Detector (Fargo, ND, ex-Gumbi) as well as Serenghetto had already played; not a single complaint was heard about their performances.

Making way through the between-sets crowd outside I found that there was an exorbitant amount of food brought by and for anyone to share. The range of this potluck was wide enough to satisfy any food diet in practice with plenty on the backburners for later with meats still marinating, vegetable medleys, chips n’ dips, and a pile of a day expired boxed food most likely rescued from the local chain store or market. The kicker was the rhubarb pie humorously served in a pan in the shape of a Christian cross for one of the housemates’ birthday. The care in preparing the pie and the taste as it was served à la mode surpassed any notion of how to argue the implications of an inverted cross pie.

Into the living room space where the family Christmas tree had exploded, splattering the lights across the room’s interior and blowing out all the other furnishings and decorations out of there opened it up as the stage. A nice change to the typical basement dwellings, taken advantage of only seconds into Wild Child’s set by someone who leapt over the railing of the raised level into the tall room to crowd surf. Wild Child was a well-received local band that filled the room with a crowd that ebbed and flowed.

Probing the house further between sets would reveal that majority of the rooms were pretty bare, but served as getaways for groups to convene in. There were either two lines many people were waiting in, the one to use the only bathroom in the house or the one to get drinks at the bar. The bar was again in tradition staffed by Zach, one of the residents, who maintains pleasant conversation and his good-natured company was something to take back with you as the evening went on.

Getting into character was Chickadee Mountain Martyrs next. The band has been rightfully getting more attention as of late and for good reason. The lead singer/guitarist put his gear in place while dressed in black robe, dark sunglasses and a razor sleeve that draped from the arm he strummed his guitar with. Together with two separate drum kits, one of them a stand-up kit, and a bassist, they artfully crafted complex compositions without the other times employed horn and string accompaniment. Their experimental sound proved to be captivating and held a genuinely interested open-minded audience.

The night shifted back towards punk rock as Peer Precious, Mike Wilson of Duluth’s lyrically and rhythmically masterminded three-man band, prepped the bunch with their pop-punk music. People did their best to acclimate to the 80˚+ muggy atmosphere created by their own body heat as Shellshag (Brooklyn, NY) took over. The power duo, surrounded on all sides, weaved beautiful harmonious lyrics amid the heavy drumming and shake of bells tied to the standing drummer’s waist. The tower the drummer had sculpted out of each drum piece and stands reached far over everyone’s heads marking the end of their set.

To wrap up the punk catalog was the locally established Frozen Teens. By this point it was better to have stripped the better part of what clothing you wore so it wouldn’t get drenched with sweat. I, as usual, made the mistake of keeping all my layers on. The thickness of the crowd and the movement the band created tested the camaraderie of the mass as people rolled over onto the ground and the occasional surfer rode the top surface.

The persistent barrage let up and everyone hurried out to cool off. By this time nearly two hundred people were scattered around the property. Hugs and goodbyes were made all around the yard of the house while those who’d traveled and could not make it home that night were welcome to stay at the house for one last night. The Conventicle had its last great show May 29, 2011. The feasting will continue elsewhere!

Full Line-up:
Fuck Detector – http://www.facebook.com/pages/Fuck-Detector/
Serenghetto –
Wild Child –
Chickadee Mtn Martyrs – http://www.myspace.com/chickadeemountainmartyrs
Peer Precious – http://www.myspace.com/peerprecious
Shellshag – http://www.myspace.com/shellshag
Frozen Teens – http://www.myspace.com/frozenteens

A gift from the wind

Wednesday, May 25th, 2011
 

 

I stepped out Karl’s door on Tuesday morning to retrace the steps I had made the previous day when I photographed all the Adept stickers I could find on the Minneapolis streets with a film camera that could not focus on them closely enough. I really should have done it with my digital, so I brought that instead for the do-over. I really like them (those stickers) and as I shot the first one on Lake Street I remember thinking (or wishing) that it would be sheer happiness to find one on the ground that I could keep, but in all the months and miles I’ve wandered the city making pictures I’ve only once found a scrap of decent sticker graffiti unstuck and loose on the sidewalk. They almost never fall off. They’re called stickers for a reason.

Adept draws his characters with a caligraphic pen and a steady hand that seems influenced by Robert Crumb, Robert Williams, and Lucy in her Sky with Diamonds. Many of them are balding lumpy old men. Some, I assume, are of real folks he knows. Others are freaked-out wrinkled monsters. Some are erotic. Some are cycloptic. None of them fail to intrigue.

Clearly, I am not the only soul wishing to keep one. Peelers have tried and failed. Miserably. They’re called stickers for a reason.

To calculate the incalcuable odds against me finding one loose and unstuck on the sidewalk at all, ever, let alone on the very day I wished for it – on a day that I chose to walk several miles to capture them all before the rain and the sun could destroy them – one would have to start at 50/50, because if it had been face down I would not have spotted it on the Lyndale Avenue sidewalk. It is missing a corner and appears to have been tramped on a few thousand times, but it is perfect nonetheless. And I was right. It was sheer happiness to find it.

Shaking Hands with the Killer

Tuesday, May 17th, 2011
Me and the Killer

Me and the Killer

I don’t normally comment on the events that pass through the news. I’ve learned from making my mistakes at the Minnesota Daily that it’s almost always a bad idea, a trap to suck your mind down and waste time.

But with the passing today of Harmon Killebrew, a hero here in Minnesota, the root of Roosterhouse country, I did want to say something. It extends back to my teenagerhood, when I was still figuring out things. (Note the mongrelesque picture above).

I shook Killebrew’s hand back then and along with a lot of other people had my picture taken with him. Killebrew’s handshake was the strongest I’ve ever encountered being only comparable to my grandfather’s. My grandfather worked his whole life on the farm, something Killebrew was liable to do in the offseason.

My grandfather is in his 80s an it’s funny how something like the handshake will persist into old age. That strength and being once found isn’t lost. I don’t know. In the digital world (nowland), that appreciation of the physicality of the generations previous is understated and underappreciated. What I learned back then was to have a strong firm handshake. When I shook Killebrew’s hand, I knew “Yeah this guy hits 400-foot home runs AND he’s a good guy. ”

It does amaze me how much of one’s being is transmuted down through the shoulder to the arms, to the wrist to the meeting hands. That disappearing art of touch, the close encounter, on-the-spot confrontation. It’s easy to tell a liar through the handshake. Easier yet to tell someone comfortable in their own skin.

Breaking Away from the Herd 1 Zine Out!

Friday, May 13th, 2011

Breaking Away from the Herd 1 Zine Cover

Breaking Away From the Herd Zine #1

Description: BAftH is a full color zine covering the adventures of Kevin “Berserker” Hagen. This first issue covers first forays into alcoholism family, school and otherwise. Each zine builds on the adventures of the past. There are going to many issues of BAftH. So get the first one and start out on the right foot!

Cover is by Katy Eng. Story from life by Kevin Hagen. Collage layout by Karl Noyes.

Available in e-zine form for download and good ol’ tangible paper.
$3.00 shipping included if you use the Paypal link. It costs a little more if you use Amazon.

Purchase the physical copy by using this button:





Find it on Amazon.

Purchase the e-zine version HERE.

LucidStill 04

Wednesday, December 1st, 2010

By virtue of loneliness I babble.

Once a strange child seeks company.
Will someone witness this loneliness?
It is laying empty in the daylight.
It is daylight.

In all things, I babble.
Seeking to find home in clarification of an object beyond
reason or sound, to know that object
as I know my heart; uneasy, or as I know my breath;
tiring; but not as I know my words

something to be carelessly thrown at objects who
never deserved them. Did I mean this madness?
Surely madness is meant, and if not

Baby Hitler. Asleep.
He dreams a Jewish mother
whose breast is an atom bomb.
We will die in his lips.

LucidStill 03

Sunday, November 7th, 2010

He pops ambien to chase day.

Remembers something ancestral, something that blooms from the stem where his brain first split from it’s body and produced the opus of what he now calls “life”.

Logos. He remembers the root and you know it when you speak with him for he gifts words like wildfires and they spread around your body and leave nothing but the barebones in the end, the ash and the skeleton. He dissolves you to this only to claim it is not him, but the weather.

This is a poem about Jeremy Brunger written to the only mass who will ever care enough to bear it’s witness as a fruit and not a burden.

He takes ambien to chase the day visions, wandering blind through streets he reads stop signs as his skin and cannot enter; this is the problem. He is a perpetualist.

Lonely, lonely man.

When he wakes, he walks in my head, and throughout my sorrow. I taste him when the pen is down, and taste him when the pen is up, and remember him every time I am alone.

I salute the moon with his kiss, and he’d hate this, and I salute that as well.

We are human, we are flesh
we decay, we die, we need
lust
to forget. We have to forget we are sleeping God’s

for the day the babies wake to rattle the cage
there will be no earth to hold them
and we will fall free as bliss
into an eternity of thoughts never once
glimpsed.

LucidStill 02

Sunday, November 7th, 2010

See.

Coffee houses spilling jazz staves like syrup up the open crack of street watch
time carried as rite of passage by cloaked venom shrouded custodians they
ingest a right a left and then swerrvy into the open masses as
ink carries their gums to taste foreign ashes. Here in
Hiroshima or France
the words carry the same weight, the weight of the world,
the weight of their own demise and explanation lost to the fact
a pictoral representation of stickly heart in sand
means more to us then the words pertaining it’s meaning

WHY does green gush so luscious when I wake up and
HOW could a color possibly correlate with both
wreckage and death and cool tempest like a lovers hush
before wrath takes the body and bends it’s will.

I hope. I cannot help but hope and write my hopes as humanities.
I watched telepaths light themselves on fire for this. That is not a semantic ruse.
I cannot stand on corner for fear of catching fire
I cannot stand on building for fear of catching fall
‘s fingers too limp in my hands, the pardons of another year
and they kiss me to whisper hush here hear

how words
speak.

There is truth in puns. There is an unbearable is-ness to the raw intensity it takes to hold and twist a colloquialism built into a monument of history over years, to take that and just… twist again, like every summer, like every year
twists it’s head into it’s own pocket: I could not count this snakes demise
until I saw it’s rattle make music of it’s throat
you who chant wardrums
know the pulse of September is one thousand steady cold
in the moat, in the river, in the gutter, for Hope.

What a word.

Hope. On whose wings fly bombs.
Hope. On whose wheels cum whores.
Hope. On whose heels all humanity sits
the bored drooling mess of our own ancestry
maybe the dog domesticated us?
I’ve become trapped in this skin I’ve fashioned
to save me from my trappings;
I’ve become devoured
by my feast.

by what I’ve seen.

LucidStill 01

Sunday, November 7th, 2010

Contrive.

When fall
trees downed
as shots round
the bar shouts
and in come
the saints
and their clown
suits ghosting
hollow winds.

To form designs;

this groundwork they call morals.
I watch pigeons paint their shit with God
and man paint his God with shit
and wonder which is better.

To plan with ingenuity
the bastardization of our holiest antiquities;
those rites which lay their arms through birth
and death like the limbs of trees counting
lives by the stains they wear, white stains
to vanish with the rain.

To bring about by a plan;
“Do you see that man below?”
“The one in the hat?”
“The naked prophet on the soap-box.”
“Why is it the religious never cover their heads?”
“Fate.”

“Nice shot.”