"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..."
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."
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
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. __________________________________
you haven't lived until you stand up 6 ft. looking out right at ground level of the grave you just helped dig with your partners for your dead old lady and everybody's drinking MD 20/20 when you look up at all them laughing at your drunken white ass as they help you out of the hole
It's a viciousgman to live becaugtted Another is e gecau claimed innoganot executed be ged gu Monk was a ge. H a poet, woregd a b and had the gof an I've ever mege had education, wgever Some time agten q while he recighad a quiet voice tgyour out. Monk ggof po which I sentgiends when he wasgave a poetry awaygsee M
one cannot live without love on the day of those dead when the sentences snap like the cheap beads on your most beautiful of necks don't break my glass only fill it my dear let's lose it all in our love even if it's only two fat bellies covered in sweat we're fucking on the moon when you close your eyes we'll float like the matador there is nothing holding us here any longer and when you come please call me by somebody else's name anybody's so that way I don't have to answer you when I do get up to leave
thanks for the snowy egret on this plate thanks for the foster home full of dead bodies thanks for the clitoris that feels all pain thanks for the thermal pollution of our lips thanks for the myrmidon that we call president thanks for the nine days' wonder of celebrity thanks for the withholding tax on the rapture thanks for the artficial intelligence asking our questions thanks for the weasel words they publish in books thanks for the cleavage on the suicide bomber thanks for the group therapy of solitary confinement thanks for the fancy dress with nothing left to eat thanks for the biosphere that makes a great target thanks for the autopsy at our local pharmacy thanks for the doomsday maternity ward smiles thanks for the reveille of saying thanks for nothing
Old grey vehicles grey sky lost grey skates at Bullhead Lake smoky ghosts of breath from my uncle's grey face. Of course this is memory and memory is a random diagnosis. My cousin hit the guard rail above the canal riding it on two wheels before tipping over into iced black water. Watching the divers searching for his milk van on a grey tv screen. Top stories. His corpse now as frozen as this turkey was just three days ago. Uncle guides the blade through the fibrous white meat. Independent pathologist. Grey deep memories of smoky ghosts. The whiskey is in the trunk. Ever notice grey Chicago in winter drinking Old Style randomly into iced black water pull over and get me some whiskey? Out hunting in the early grey dawn. Pushes me off the sled. Spread his cheeks and showed me his butthole. Snowing in the grey frozen photos in iced black water. Olives rolling off of the table. Crushing the silver ornaments into a grey rug. Bloodied dead pheasants in a pool of water on the wooden floor next to some black rubber galoshes. Old grey voices in the other room around deep memories around lost holiday tables. Summer forts are covered in snow now... The next year on a warm bright day a boy finds an old pair of rusty ice-skates near the lake.
you're just pulling the wet food stamps out of a hooker's stinking snatch let's taser the christians first there ain't no more room in this ant farm reverend I left my birth certificate in the glove box of a hearse on the rims I left my dirty rig in your little girl's day care sand box a sticky situation what life is short but death is long and I'm still waiting in line behind these obese frogs nephew get your ass out while you still can they all suck they just don't all swallow
the more I drink the more I drink alone with my dripping memories I used to fuck you ass in the air when my cock came back out your cunt lips looked like a pink sleeve and that's not the half of it I cryed for all you bitches for all you brothers gone and erased no chance to say goodbye one handful of pills never said goodbye and I know you would have you lowrider you cowboy you redneck operator you Indian girl my baby hair spread on asphalt sticky with blood right is right and wrong is wrong hold your mud all erased all erased as I sit here still breathing I wonder what the poor people are doing
when he was dead, cold flowers & songs about nothing that were easy to remember. ---------------------------------- when you were dead I couldn't look into your eyes. ---------------------------------- when I died, flowing in sleep, I forgot what I wanted but I heard your fading voice.