THE FOLLOWING BOOKS
WERE PUBLISHED WITH
WORK OFF OF THIS BLOG!!!!



FOR MORE INFO ON HAPPY HOUR
AND HOW TO ORDER, CLICK HERE:

http://lokidesign.net/2356/2010/11/four-minutes-to-midnight-issue-eleven%E2%80%94happy-hour/

"To tell you the truth, I'm pretty burned out
on meat poetry or street poetry or poetry of
the down-and-out, whatever you want to call
it, because so much of it is bullshit; either bogus
motherfuckers who never shed blood but
insinuate themselves into the lives of those
who have and then make a name for themselves
by writing generic imitations, or a bunch of
middle-class kids still living at home talking
tough, aping Bukowski, Wantling, levy, Micheline...
but HAPPY HOUR is the real thing. Stark precision.
It's stripped down, bare bones authentic.
You be the real McCoy, amigo..."
-John Bennett


A new EBOOK!
FREE DOWNLOAD!
CLICK HERE FOR MORE INFO:
http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/pesticide-drift/9128215


DRINKING & THINKING
FROM BLUE PRESS,
SANTA CRUZ, CA. 2010
"For a while, now, outside of
what you/ve been doing
outside Klamath Falls and what
Todd Moore was doing outside
Albuquerque, not much
integrity married to the inside
dope of the poetic imagination
as far as my jaded view
has been concerned."
-Michael C. Ford


SOMEONE WHO LOVED YOU
From 48th Street Press,
Philadelphia, PA. 2010
"SOMEONE WHO LOVED YOU
is simply a great piece of work."
-GERALD NICOSIA


TASTE THE
From If Year Books,
Brooklyn, N.Y. 2009
"A cool little scrabble of
fugitive pieces, some
handwritten, some paste-
ups, all laid in like a scrapbook
miscellany with mean teeth."
-Kevin Opstedal, Ukulele Feedback


DON'T SAY A WORD
From Blue Press,
Santa Cruz, CA. 2008
"F. A. Nettelbeck isn't
fucking around."
-Patrick Dunagan,
galatea resurrects #9




Signed copies are $10 each,
plus $2 postage and handling...
checks payable to F. A. Nettelbeck,
POB 69, Beatty, OR 97621 U.S.A.
__________________________________




12/30/10

Bang A Gong

to Paul Harrison

3 or 4 bottles of tussin
and a couple vics I'd
be good to go taking
down a bank on new year's
eve all those fat tellers
already dripping juice
in anticipation of that
greatest night of pre made
margaritas and maybe a
dildo stuffed with coppertops
if the greaseball they
came with keeps singing
fucking karaoke as the
clock strikes twelve but the
last time I borrowed a
pistol the crankster got pissed
because I didn't even
blow my brains out just kept
writing insipid poems and
he trusted me man and that
was his first mistake so
if you ever do get a piece
just put together the puzzle

12/29/10

SANCTUARY

1.) Chimps peer in a mirror.


2.) What you find in the autopsy.


3.) A glimpse of Barcelona.

12/28/10

Combings

"...and I seen the
revolution on
pay-per-view
in some sports
bar in Terrell, Tx
high on biker
crank with this
Okie broad with
some sweet camel
toe who thought it
was one long
infomercial but it
wasn't shit not like
the new Walmart..."

12/26/10






There are no new grounds left to exploit.






12/22/10

Carol

I got a lock of my dad's
greasy hair in an envelope
the undertaker guy gave
me and I got a pair of soiled
panties from my dead old lady
I used to sniff and jack off
onto with that little poofed out
crap mark and I got this little
notebook page Allen Ginsberg
scribbled some shit to me on
when we read together and I
got a blue heron's beak and
skull my kids gave to me that
they found by the river and I
got Miles Davis' autograph in a
frame right there on a wall that
I own and I got about a third left
of this half a G of Evan Williams
and I got your Christmas hanging

12/13/10

THE FUTURE OF BOOKSTORES AND INDIANS

...he's (Nettelbeck) a fraud
of an artist and a fraud
of a human being.

-bukowski.net


I also used to go on these runs
to Powell's Books in Portland
years ago with a little stubbie
pencil with an eraser before
it all went computer and when
nobody was looking I'd change
the prices on all these army
green covered ethnology books
on the shelves about the Indians
printed by the US government
ca. 1900 from $150 to $3 each
then buy them and bring them
all back and sell them to this rich
old white lady in a wheelchair in
Weed, CA and make damn good
money that I would piss away
with my Paiute girlfriend on beer

12/10/10

James Moody You Wrote My Life

A saxophone
solo with
words.

12/9/10

SOME FINE DAY

two sides of a globe
of faces like
globes

never been there faces

like clots like
round moons over
endless sleeping cities

faces

like that camera
doomed to get it
exact

faces

you'll watch the clock
& it'll watch you &
that will be the
meaning of
time

12/2/10

A FELON'S DREAM GIRL

dead flies
inside the
monster
truck

11/27/10

From The Tear Stain Lounge

the angels don't give no
change when you pay
your dues so hang onto
that box of wine and a
few favorite photos it
won't get no better just
because you're in the
club and a university
has your shitty poems
locked away in a climate
controlled room some
of your best friends are
dead and this ain't the
same country you went
junkin' with your grandpa
in so you might as well
stay and listen to a few
more sad songs the wars
and hatred will always be
king but because she was
your first choice and you
ain't with her that's what
makes the jukebox play

11/22/10

Go Read A. D. Winans

I can recall
back in the day
when I payed
attention to any
of that pop bullshit
I read this thing
in the LA Times
where Beefheart
was claiming
"I can't even buy
my old lady a
nice coat, and
where is that at"
and I've always
remembered that
when he opted out
so I am telling you
my bitch is flat
fucking freezing

CLEANING GRAVE

a couple of hours this
late May afternoon
the hot wind blowing
dust through the
headstones at the
Paiute Cemetery

I reshaped your mound
with rake and shovel
after discarding the
faded cloth flowers
and broken vases
to replace them
with others of vibrant
color and gemlike glass

one more year and I
like to get a few days
jump on the Memorial
Day crowd who come to
clean with their picnics
and unflavored talk
and be alone

just you and I and the
wind

how the hot earth of
your grave feels like
your breasts and stomach
as my flat hand
molds the heap

remembering the many times
just like this you and I
cleaned the graves of
your children and unknown
relatives who perished
on the now long gone Rez
in back seats of grey
black cars clutching
onto precious bottles
that held the miracle

we were sometimes half
drunk ourselves and those
nights my flat hand
would mold your flesh
before you took me into
you the soil of graves
on our hands mixing with
our sweat creating the
finger paintings of
our lives our love

now I kiss and tongue the
heart on your headstone
before standing up
ceremoniously with a
quart of Miller's in
my hand proud of my
work

a Janitor at the place
of the dead

always having to turn
and walk away towards the
places of the living
where only memories can
conquer the dust and
these tears mean
nothing