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.
__________________________________




10/16/07

The Game

He ran out into the arena and knelt down on the sand with the cape swirled out in front of him. I told him, yes, I was pushing junk, and he bought ten caps. Even in Egypt he refused to appear in public without this superfluous outer garment, and, though the African sun had turned the threadbare cape almost as yellow as the desert sands, he was not to be separated from it until he had picked up another in some charitable institution of the city. The light illumined and horribly distorted his face, so that his eyes looked like coals of fire and his mouth stretched joylessly back upon the gums. There were hundreds like him, beachcombers, castaways, drunks and gentlemen, gentlemen drunks who never go back-old-timers, landlopers, birds of passage, bums and remittance men, sons of parsons, dodging the police, peddling drugs on the waterfronts-lazy fellers boozing in the sun. Together we skirted the ragged confines of the festival in the half-darkness of the hot night, and at last the Magzub came to a long broken wall of earth-bricks which had once demarcated gardens now abandoned and houses now derelict. "Good, good. Come on in. I've seen you driving your car. You must have an interesting job." Ventriloquism. His hand was now golden in dashboard light, reaching for a pint of Old Crow, amber as pine pitch. The sun came up slowly over the bare mountain ridges. The country was flat and desertlike. There was not a tree as far as we could see. It looked like west Texas. I was prepared to sit politely while he skidded us off the highway and we rolled and smacked at seventy miles an hour through the cactus and desert clay. "Lock the windows," he said, engrossed in pressing the button which raised the canvas top. His kit dropped onto the Chevy's floor, spider wise his lisp lost twice now his hand touching the mannikin's thigh, "I love the human race." I felt a kind of diffidence in him, as though he had done wrong, though unwittingly, and were ashamed. "I'll be back by suppertime." It is nightfall in the small town and the air cools a little as you sit in the back seat of the Chevy with its dusty stink of upholstery that scratches your bare legs: when one takes a hand one must play the game....




Comprised of lines from the work of Barnaby Conrad, William Burroughs, Harry A. Franck, James Baldwin, Dylan Thomas, Lawrence Durrell, Peter Benchley, Robert Roripaugh, Ernie Pyle, Norman Mailer, F. A. Nettelbeck, W. Somerset Maugham, Flora Durham, and Joseph Conrad.