"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.



Kill all you worse than my stinking runny shit assholes

who voted for Bush and not with kindness but with hatred die

Kill all you execs in the corporate Rock world who sign

on the dotted line the insipid lackluster robot mummies die

Kill all you haters of beings with fur who could eat

your face if they weren't dieing from human kindness die

Kill all you celebrity cunts who are too stupid to

leave Hollywood when the cocksucking has just gotten good die

Kill all you planet strangling Christians who are the perfect curse

tonguing my asshole through your please believe me smile die

Kill all you dead on arrival poets too scared to say kill the evil

and all those responsible for it and their heinous mothers die

Kill all you terrorist pus licking cocksuckers who think me

and all my real American friends are punks suck it Muhammad die

Kill all you fucking pig cops who took my father's party away all

the bars making us wear seat belts and helmets especially you die

Kill all you who think global warming ain't real and cancer ain't a

plot by the rich corporate devils now eating your wife's tits die

Kill all you doctors smoking a joint while the answering machine

fills up with the lost voices of those strung out on methadone die

Kill all you arty stars folding your wallet with millions made off of

impoverished kids saving pennies to buy your action figure die

Kill all you gutless Americans so scared to take it to the streets as

you stand outside of the Today show shaking Al Roker's hand die


without the aid of
others or verbal
charms the clock
is swept clean of
later life so recklessly
extravagant like
minimum wage
yet some newborn
seconds are given
free as a courtesy
with that medly of
faces of those who
we have fucked
literally and
figuratively to
continue making
this all worth living


I doubt anyone will be
the same again.

writing about the
destruction of modern
entertainment and art

Nothing is coincidence, not


A Brief History Of The Apocalypse

"Real Soon Now"

"Anytime Now"

"Pretty Soon Now"


Lost Resolutions

bb gun of arms dank with solvent
a cluster of spokes speaking
of sidewalks it's in that carnival
headlock when a spongy face must
absorb fortress friendships the baseball
card spitball imitating a mother's
voice calling all home where a
piano is waiting to be mimicked
while bones compress against auld
lang syne in hopes one of you will
become a man


In The Greenroom

Talk me down.

(or memory leak detector

) sleep is preparation

for death,



panhandling in
front of the
sperm bank.


A Christmas Story

Slohump tucked her quarters up under the rail of the table, she wanted to play. Frank had already played and won four games, he was tired. "Nah, I'll pass," he told her. "Fuck you, white eyes, " she laughed. Frank waved her off with his right hand like you would a summer fly. Slohump must have weighed four to five hundred pounds, her face chiseled from plain meanness. I bet your damn crotch weighs at least a hundred pounds by itself, Frank thought as he sat back down next to Crazy Charlie at the bar. Charlie was talking to a drunken cowboy about some topic he knew absolutely nothing about. That was typical Crazy Charlie, he knew a lot about nothing. "Ain't that right, dawg," Charlie said, slapping Frank on the shoulder. "Shit, yeah," Frank answered, looking around the room. The place was packed, considering it was Christmas eve. He adjusted the four flat boxes that sat in front of him on the bar. Not any Indians though, except for Slohump and Charlie, he thought. Frank and Charlie had driven the fifty miles to town to sell these collector Indian plates that Frank had ordered through the mail from the Franklin Mint. It was a good scam, because you never had to send them any money. They just sent you the plates and billed you. They had both decided to sell the plates and buy something for Charlie's nine-year-old daughter for Christmas. "Fucking cowboys," Charlie told Frank, turning his back on the drunk. Just then, three young well dressed Indian dudes walked in and sat down at a table. Charlie nudged Frank. Frank slid the boxes over to Charlie. Charlie took a plate out of its box, one that had a colorful picture of a war party on it, put it on top of the other boxes and walked over to the table. All that Frank could hear over the loud juke box was Charlie saying, "Hey, dawg." Five minutes later, Charlie came back with four twenty dollar bills. Frank ordered another pitcher of beer and they sat there laughing at their good fortune. It was too bad that it was only 10:30 in the morning. By the time 3:00 in the afternoon rolled around, they were pretty drunk. After buying drinks for all the fools around the bar for the last four hours, all they had in front of them for change was $9.00, and they would need that for gas. They sat there listening to Freddy King sing Christmas Tears on the juke. After awhile Frank said, "Fuck it, let's go to the Salvation Army... it's still early, they got toys." Crazy Charlie nodded as he leaned into Frank. "And merry Christmas to all!" he slurred. They got up, blew kisses to the drunks in the bar, and left out the side door to the parking lot. Frank's old Chevy station wagon sat there like a dinosaur next to all those new pickup trucks. They got in and Frank carefully drove the fifteen minutes it took to get to the Sally. They could see there was a light on in the back. Frank parked the wagon and they half stumbled up to the front door and knocked. A small grey shadow appeared and became larger as it approached the glass door. The shadow was now wearing a uniform and had grey hair. The door opened and an old man said, "I am the Commander, may I help you?" Frank and Charlie looked at each other. "He needs some toys for his daughter for Christmas," Frank finally said. He didn't seem to remember speaking. "Come with me," the Commander said. He took them down a hallway that opened into a large room. "This is all we have left... grab some of those plastic bags and take what you need," The Commander then went and stood against a wall watching them. The room was filled with cardboard boxes full of Barbie Dolls, all in clear plastic packaging. Frank and Charlie smiled at each other and began to fill trash bags with Barbie Dolls. When they thought they had enough, they stood up and looked at the Commander. "All right then," the Commander said, and he walked out of the room into the hallway. Frank and Charlie followed, carrying the trash bags full of dolls as the Commander then escorted them to the front door. "You boys have a good Christmas now," the Commander said, locking the glass door behind them. "Thanks dawg!" Charlie yelled through the glass. The uniform then turned into a small grey shadow once again.

In the morning, Frank slowly opened his eyes and began to realize that he was in his house. He opened his mouth to yawn, and his breath turned into a small white ghost. No fire in the stove. He began to piece things together. It was snowing. He had dropped Crazy Charlie off somewhere. Tiny asses, legs... no... tits, arms... fuck, the dolls! At least parts of it were coming back. He got up out of bed and noticed that he was still dressed. It was freezing. He went to get a glass of water. It was eleven a.m. and he was flat hungover. He looked out the window and saw the Chevy out front. That was a very good sign. He then remembered it was Christmas day, and that he was invited over to these Indian's house for a party and dinner. Fuck making a fire. At least they'd have some beer. He locked the front door and went to go warm up the wagon. He opened the door and got in, and saw all these Barbie Dolls all over the front seat, some with their arms and legs torn off. The floor was covered in plastic packaging. He didn't notice any beer anywhere. It'd be frozen anyway, he thought. He pushed the dolls, legs, and arms onto the floor, and tried to start the Chevy. On the third try she fired right up. It didn't take him long to drive the ten miles to Beatty, even though the road was solid ice. When he got to Trina's big green house, something didn't seem quite right. There were only three cars in the yard, and nobody was pissing off of the porch. He parked, walked up to the front door, and knocked. Trina opened the door and let him in. Her old man and a couple of other people were sitting around the kitchen table, drinking. Frank sat down and Trina got him a beer. "What the fuck's up?" Frank finally asked. They were all so solemn. "Kevin blew his brains out with the 12 gauge early this morning in the back bedroom," Trina explained. "Fuck...," was all Frank could say, his hangover giving him a feeling of floating. Kevin was Trina's pretty teenaged daughter's white boyfriend from California. "The cops took the body out of here a couple of hours ago, come on," Trina lead Frank to the back bedroom. Through the open door, Frank could see Trina's sister and a couple other women scrubbing the brain matter off of the walls with toothbrushes. "Fuck...," Frank said again. He went back to go sit at the kitchen table and drink beer. Trina's old man and another guy named Eyeballs were now playing dominoes. Frank had always hated Christmas. He sipped on his beer.


King Of Angels

king of angels
went down to

hellhole earth
got himself lost

and found in
a newsworthy

rubble made
otiose with the

lack of fresh faces
for his photo op

in the bloodshot
shadows beginning

to make it look
a lot like christmas


re-create your shadow
in cities you've never
been in.



The boat is the story the ocean tells.
-Bob Heman

The ocean is
the story the
boat plagiarizes.


Of Poets And Men

I was 16 and started writing poems and that
was really stupid I also jacked off these huge
loads and I thought the sentence thee sentences
well that was better that is better than my teachers
explaining some shit man what a joke that thinking
turned out to be so when I got older one time I met
this prick Robert Duncan and you talk about an asshole
I still dislike him he thought his sister was a piece of
shit bending the bow suck dick and get over it Jesus
he was really a creep I was talking to Kenneth Rexroth
once and he was pretty cool standing there with his
pornstar daughter telling me how Bukowski was
"vicious" that was funny then one time I saw Gerard
Malanga in a subway station in NYC but didn't say
nothing which was weird because years before he
wanted to fuck my girlfriend back in Santa Cruz when
he wore this lumberjack shirt and took pictures of me
passing out in a sleaze ball bar now is that poetry I don't
know but he turned Jim Morrison onto leather he told
me that but then who wouldn't suck off Jim Morrison



He was still alive.
If I blackout that is my alibi.
memory the out wipe blacout to live so as to wipe out the memory
To wipe out memory is the goal.
likness a back give or alibi to give back a likeness
trick the do to trick dote do trick to do the trick
Give back your likeness to whosoever gave it.
alibi blackout my ever my blackout alibi
I abolish limbos.
something yone has done smething
with the guts GUTS TO
Do it if you have the guts.
IT the mystic we all have done something
adjst the cmera angle to cause to waste away
when the moment is right ad who know
I will ncome this way again
To the last person on earth left adjusting the camera angle.
researching fr a role my stolen options
STOLN OPTINS who will left
if the cnfession in tested sobbing
We have all done something.
over you are still a missing person
you are not coming this way again
You will not come this way again researching for a role out of touch ot of options
The beauty of it
to not set foot here again
just one more time


In a country of
homeless pets.



The owner prizes his mask
above all else, and it is
usually burned at his death.


Keep Drinking

this cheap Australian chardonnay on
ice is better than running out of gas in
Long Beach or hearing those anti-
shoplifting buzzers going off right
before you gotta start running
again it's like that no pussy in
three years and now you're back
at the clinic sitting with this chick
who's as dull as her Goodwill panties
makes you want to light yourself on
fire and jump on Jesus if you ever
got the chance to see him I mean a
final wish situation like calling talk
radio on a flophouse hallway phone
and ultimately not having nothing to say
no idea where you're going with it next
as you stare dumbfounded at the wall
where someone has scribbled
This isn't so bad



"When everybody's opening up
their presents, I'll be opening up
my wrists."



A finespun sylph in a
tattered chancre
is reciting madrigals
to the uterus in
polyped increments.


Some Notes On The Filming Of BUG DEATH

everything changed on television a mandate

wiped clean with the perfumed wrists of

the first date so traditional like a gun

cleaning kit in the glove box far from

being romantic the rape sequence was

filmed in black and white on an

immaculate beach of a private island

owned by a hip-hop artist with some

cornball name and questionable pull

with minor gangsters back in the

garment district in NYC well of course

I was taken aback as a moth would be

in an abandoned rooming house mirror

on St. Valentine's day I mean that is

quite a palate cleanser let me tell

you and when she stared wide-eyed

as I penetrated myself with the

vibrator I thought she would forget her

lines altogether I mean it was more

than an attachment to some poet it was

acting for god's sake and she held it

together oh and I remember that Mexican

grip asking me 'todo?' but he never called

back it's not easy remaking a classic you

know that's why I shunned the party circuit

back then it's like handwriting you've never

seen in a guest book you won't remember



poverty is the wall you drink
through and please don't
quote me Bukowski he is
no longer out-of-print
you asshole look at
me when I'm talking
to you ever been afraid?
took 29 stitches to the
face fighting a lesser fool
with a pipe over some bitch
whose cunt is now cold in
the smirking ground
thank god my goatee
covers this massive
scar so I can still get
work in porno flicks no
you fuck of course I'm
kidding (unintelligible)
I don't read Jean Genet
I just read headlines
they're free no no shit this
ain't no empty posturing
I got the last round it's your
turn now man


No Country For Young Men

Christmas music plays

as oblivious shoppers

the soft targets

now make me famous



valley of death I'm still walking
not one motherfucker did tell
me it would be easy ain't that
a trip high profile escape glans
estuary and plasm smeared
reticent on canvases I want my
fucking country back you talking
to me silly putty faced asshole the
gun feel the gun that gun at
your own head on the brightest
of days wet tables wet hair the
black sponges containing answers
yodel lady who'll stop the clock
fuck rain slip into more comfortable
DNA like the sleeve of brutal night
tailored in a mirror by these neuro
friendly ghosts remaking all new


Ugly Whether

fuck you



buy this Indian's food stamp
card for half of its face valuea
sell half of the old lady's
prescriptions to those with
the need the no limit eyesa
take all the free weed you can
from these self-important
medical marijuana growers
thinking they're
doing you a favora
always resell that shit in
the budget ziploc bagsa
only shoplift the necessitiesa
if Jesus wouldn't do it there
must be something to ita
never ever forget to smilea