"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. __________________________________
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.