"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!

"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

From 48th Street Press,
Philadelphia, PA. 2010
is simply a great piece of work."

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

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.


Imaginary Blackout With Claude Monet

for Bryan Mickle

to speak in light of light like the wine spilled on
the chromatic tracks of Stockon's suicidal

or harmonicas of wind and your need to piss
out the boxcar door onto Merle
Haggard's half-masted shadow

what you always said 'bury your wine'
before hitting that main stem
never nothing about what brush

I should use on her face to restore the codeine
in her eyes that killed the pain for the
very first time

Claude we're getting old as we wait for
this next train of colors
ashamed of our own signatures

I had that dream again man the one I had
back in Philly were I stood there with
all those postcards in my arms

with all your paintings on them only I wasn't
staring at that heat shimmered highway
it was your gravestone that was shimmering

and for the very first time I felt lost like you
were'nt my road dawg no more like someone
captured you in a book

but then I read the inscription and it was all
right they got it fucking right so perfect
and I woke up feeling righteous brother




brought sexy back,twisting breath

taking took back in a moment)
brought hot wax slugs in sexless
cracks of turbulence

and they didn't ask me: now I ask
sexy back,in the twilight glow
I see brown eye(

extinguished/ mutton-lipped fondling.

now I want sexy

then he started sucking on the
stump of my right arm;"sexy ain't coming

(with pride with exploded chairs
of crotch
with that new baby smell crying in the

sexy's back


Deeper Inside The Headlines

If, for instance, some
one were trying to take
the pencil or the knife
away from the sharpener,
then he might well say
that he was endeavoring
to sharpen the pencil.



recollect some years back here on the then terminated rez a bright winter morning cruising from Beatty with a case of Rainier headed out to the hills visiting a partner here there and after leaving this one dude's house after doing this huge curlicued line of crank he gave me going down this snow covered country road where I then get flagged down by some Indian partners of mine older cowboy guys cool as shit but not so cool now they were all animated about another cowboy Chunky who fell off his horse over the rise and their pick-up stuck there in the ditch now I was coming on pretty good to the dope and they wanted me to help them go get him take him out of there I did have a 4x4 older Chevy but the tires were bald and fuck the beer the white well you know so big Burt about 6 foot 6 and 400 pounds jumps in and tells the other guys to get that truck out the ditch me and Mr. Fred will go get Chunky blah blah so I hang a U go down to a side road that will get us approx. to where he'd be and it's all covered in snow and we gotta go up over this rise and the bald tires are spinning and we can't get no traction so big Burt jumps out and back into the back of the truck bouncing up and down back towards the tail gate with his 4oo pounds screaming at me to floor it and I got it in low and all four wheels locked in and I'm flooring it and he's bouncing up and down and there we go up and over slick as shit only he jumps out at the top screaming at me to keep going to go help Chunky so I keep going and about a quarter mile here's these other Indian friends of mine and I get out and they get off their horses and there's Chunky alright dead as shit laying on his back in the snow god damn man god damn he broke his neck when he fell off his horse so after a while of standing there someone gets a blanket and we roll him over on it now they didn't call him Chunky for nothing he must have weighed 400 pounds himself it took about 5 of us to lift him into the back of my truck and now big Burt walks up and takes Chunky's saddle off his horse and throws it in the back of the truck so by this time most of the day has been consumed by this drama and it would be getting dark soon big Burt decides me and him should take Chunky down to the main road while the guys on horses take off and call the Sheriff well big Burt jumps in the back of the truck with Chunky and I take off back the way I came and after a few minutes I hear big Burt screaming and I look in the rear view and he's got the saddle ON Chunky and RIDING him screaming YOU AIN'T DEAD COWBOY GOD DAMN YOU or something and shit man fuck I stop get out calm him down and big Burt gets in the cab with me and I open him a beer and we take off again he's pretty tore up anyway by the time we get to the road that turns left to the main road there's the Sheriff and he stops us and he's pissed off that we moved a dead body and you can't do that for Christ's sakes and blah blah and big Burt tells him to get fucked you fucking asshole cops wouldn't have moved him tonight anyways and by the morning the coyotes would have got him fuck you the cop just looks at me and sez follow me to the main road now I'm pretty fucked up and me and big Burt each got an open can of beer in our hands but I follow him and when I get there I pull over on the right behind the cop where the road Ts now this fucking cop gets out comes and tells us to put Chunky ON THE GROUND and that he's called the meat wagon and that WE COULD GO NOW well of course here comes big Burt this time really going off and the cop don't want none of it and sez ok you wait here for the meat wagon and then takes off so by now all the Indians have got word about Chunky and they all come and have sort of a public viewing with Chunky in the back of the truck and I put my old navy coat over him and people bring whiskey beer the pall and we stand there a couple of hours most of them leaving and it's getting dark and the undertaker comes up in that long Caddy and backs up to the back of my truck and me and big Burt slide Chunky out of the truck and onto the stretcher and before the undertaker slides him into the Caddy big Burt stops him and big Burt tells Chunky that this will be his LAST RIDE then he just stands there pissed and sad then the undertaker slides him in and I notice Chunky's dirty ball cap that fell to the ground and I pick it up and on the front of it it sez I HAVE A DRINKING PROBLEM I'M BROKE


Greatest Country

but a complex combination of assessments of objective reality on the one hand, and the hypodermic needles crawling the boulevards of this greatest country

like the migrating beliefs drawn from different levels
of cancer tips from a reputable Morning Show
on the other.

Also on the street, unwitting contributors to the loss of everyone's basic rights

one gnarled arthritic hand
then adds matter-of-factly,

"Most times, I don't care whether I do or don't."

It is when we go to the scholarly mind that we find even greater confusion
broken needles falling like what remains
of the greatest country
the gnarled hands
of the gutless
who let it
happen lips puking lies as thin as the relics of a rather thrilling past.

Lethargy, disinterest and general apathy ( again you liar you have cancer in this greatest country medicated and alone


wring society point at society rejoice in puking
lies we let it fall to pieces at this point
the knowledge of the Cross
restraining its hands

(level all man-made structures so that nature can once more return)

as outlined above

he carries this failure home where his family life
is undergoing a parallel deterioration.

at this point that the rest of society can wring its hands or rejoice in the certain knowledge

we all let it happen puking our lies

and when the Cross, that restraining talisman, falls to pieces


In retrospect, it seems as if the degree to which one becomes a participant is as much a matter of perceiving oneself as a participant as it is of being accepted as a participant by others.


Imitative Sounds

energy future
no future sold out
not black
not a woman

everything changes skin of ghosts in
the couch
I want my fucking

don't want to change that

a caresser of mirrors in
an antique store

a cancer czar

the sparks of holiness
the mission of the soul

that languidness
of your

thirty years ago

looking into this future



cell phones ringing

in the pockets

of the dead or our expanding universe still so young

if it were far far older light from

all the galaxies would indeed flood us

with radiation rendering life impossible

but for now night skys remain dark yet menstruation is what

enabled women to develop a sense of time and forethought

language evolved because men and women

had to negotiate sex now as the first lethal robots head

for Iraq the role of the robot

soldier as a killing machine has

barely been debated but the synclavier is now outmoded

thus Zappa's machine music

the acme of his composing career

will rarely ever again

be played as he wrote it knowing it doesn't get much better

than having a thick cock stretch

the walls of your tight pussy

like it's the very first time

then you were seen in a video aired days afterward

held with a gun to your head but there has been

no word on your fate for example that music

is an evolutionary adaption

something that men developed

as a way to demonstrate

reproductive fitness so the moon smells

like exploded



Highway 61 Yard Sale

Devil may care lost lost I feel my arms in sleep don't want 'em give them back CREATOR you want this shit back? no no didn't mean that like when I sleep I worry my worn out balls against the worn out walls no no like LOOK man, you want this shit back? these eyes looked into all the fools' eyes who thought I the punk I piss on you I look at you if I had a fucking camera your lips would be sealed soft like lead or as old as a tin type MAN those assholes had it good sitting around posing in those stupid hats they never could afford so I should FEEL bad? man man got no money got no shame a poetic burgalr


my lips got kissed
by the lips

that ain't


no more


The Bowl Of Broken Cherries

broad spectrum

the life,
cry baby

set me free

your talk those
frayed & phony

stick them to
in a purgative

racial profile.

now tell me
you are glad
were born,



Grain. lost shells found when the boys went hiking.


so hard to stop off with cheeks most of your face stupid and grimacing I met your parents.

They look like dogs.

if I wondered on a star if the fat man sang if your lies spread thin like all our lives
"it's so hard"

lost is
BLANK American
faces smell
your loss

dead drunk
when the

trucks speak

"don't blame me"


"the cars on the televisions in our homes have televisions in those cars broadcasting bullets" -Gustave Morin

(crossing neutral space, being watched by another person.) eyes have it lost motion

when the bottle
sucks back,

I give you my hand, this jewerly box of neurological manifestations

Give Me Back My Bullets

my bottle for my weapon returned to

"getting hair" remember all of those triggers slick wet & one second acurate?

the trickling of sand


neon light

can't can't stop pinned to the last wish hot molded faces I escape you my fingers spotlighting the inference a lazy eye an untrained eye YOU to SAY? no no it was a curtain before the curtain detailed with the veins behind the BLANK down wit it as spasm in the joint on the way to go piss THE LIGHTHOUSE Hermosa Beach circa 1970 white card board on wall where THEY signed their names: JOHN COLTRANE blue ink pen on the way to piss protect yourself shrug shoulders up like the puppet goofy dance no face is the best face you who look better under muted colors retarded colors hot wax bitch smoulder my palms,