"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. __________________________________
REDLINING THE FOSSIL
Three million different varieties of seeds from around the world are locked away in a doomsday vault and you don't have the key.
you old fucker it's your birthday today and usually we'd be sitting out front here sipping on a half G of Jack but you've been dead awhile now and there's too much snow anyway so that's out I'll just keep drinking this wine for you and try to dredge up your voice again talking about days of redneck glamour drinking 40-cent drafts at the Blackboard in Bakersfield when you and Merle were both dumb and good looking and those oil fields paid the dividends a pussy licking young man needed to speed him down that road of roughneck years forever lost forever savored
used to be I'd go visit this old white dude out back here in the hills and we'd drink Oly and cheap whiskey and I'd watch him carve these beautiful Kachina dolls out of wood and then decorate them with rabbit fur and bright paint and you couldn't tell the difference even if you were standing on the side of the road near Four Corners I dug his whole scene we all called him Hazmat and that was good enough for him we'd sit drink and swat flies in the heat for hours one time I had the runny alcoholic shits and asked him where the crapper was and he got up and walked over to a tree and brought back this folding aluminum lawn chair with the bottom webbing torn out that now had a toilet seat attached to it with baling wire go anywhere you want he told me the world is my toilet and so I did a few times then another day I came over and he was at his table with a gallon glass jar setting on it that contained three large turds being swarmed by a hundred flies I shit in this jar and now I have no flies and when I go to bed I just screw on the lid he explained and I must admit it worked damned sweet well not too long after that another drunk told me they had put Hazmat in a rest home somewhere and how it was pretty fucked up because all of his stuff was still sitting out there in the woods I did think about going to get that lawn chair then but I kept on drinking
in the back seat of a rusted GTO that rests down in this gully only ten and a quarter miles off the main road to Ensenada there is an aluminum suitcase full of some handwritten poems of Jim Morrison's buried in empty Tecate cans and lizard shit just begging to be discovered
barbecuing in the snow with Hannah Montana blasting out the open front door this is the life baby girl make no mistake it doesn't get any better than this with hope making a comeback and the root beer ice cold your smile is all I need to obliterate time yet to come
I don't like you with line fragments what the bluesmen did for fun it's two white horses in a line and verse shapes as well because I will disintegrate your name in image almost like pieces of the same long song as an echo of singing subvocally to slice the weather in your heart with symbolic structure with no coats on and your suspenders down I thought I heard Buddy Bolden say that poetry was dead and stinking not artfully perhaps the use of the dissonance outside an interpolating Mississippi roadhouse where only the lowercase letters precede essence when misspelling becomes meaningless
working for a living so the douche bag breaks inside the dog show when a best friend asks how you keep your nipples so hard in the luxury suite because the only time you read is taking a shit with old Bob Dylan albums one like nature as it should be boss he's got a gun but I can't get off can't get the day off then the new season begins leave me alone take it real easy please like immediate jeopardy my eyes are not closed not so much anymore but you already knew that
I can remember once a genius named Tom Clark told me that another genius named John Martin only laughed at him when he mentioned my name as one of the people he should be publishing but if I were a woman coming out of a workshop I might have a chance is what he said like it was a joke and I quess it was but I didn't chuckle too much back then
and lacerated with knives and pissed upon and peeled and dried and blown by shotgun pellets and burned by chemicals and covered in cum and fed to lions and lessened by disease and riddled with bullets and sucked by leeches and sold to lechers and smeared with shit and buried with paupers and mocked in its deformity
you're holding a large plastic bag that says PATIENT'S BELONGINGS standing in the rain at twilight fabricating a confession while dreams crawl off like desperate housewives on umbilical leashes and the bus that never comes is now your own plasmatic future gasping in deathless afterthought