"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. __________________________________
ABOUT YOURSELF SO WHY DON'T YOU TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF NO ONE CARES HOW YOU FEEL SO TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF NO ONE CARES TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF NO ONE CARES ABOUT YOU OR LIKES YOU SO PLEASE TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF NO ONE CARES MUCH WHAT HAPPENS TO YOU WHY DON'T YOU TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF YOUR LIFE IS A MESS AND NO ONE CARES FOR YOU SO TELL ME A LITTLE BIT ABOUT YOURSELF NO ONE CARES ABOUT YOUR OPINION TELL ME A LITTLE ABOUT YOURSELF TRUST ME NO ONE CARES SO TELL ME SOMETHING ABOUT YOURSELF NO ONE CARES ABOUT YOU
inefficacious bones of every piece of puke I ever fucked up or kicked the shit out of because I do it for a living so why would I front you a 20 sack when I personally won't even write a poem unless someone is buying
ghost tavern on the outskirts. small and musty like an old train car covered in rusted beer signs of unknown brands. tongue and groove walls yellowed by nicotine. smoky blurred characters at a dark burgundy formica topped bar suspended in canned laughter. crumpled red and green Lucky Strike packages on corner tables full of empty glasses. a father's skeleton hands lifting you up as a shadow slides you a Coca Cola in the thick light green bottle. clicking of an overhead fan like a Nellie Fox baseball card in the spokes. faraway smell of a neighborhood burning leaves outside a hand worn door that doesn't even open.
that's when I graduated high school and on the last day of class we took reds and went down to the beach but got delayed for hours because thousands of people lined Imperial Hwy. to watch the jet that carried away Bobby Kennedy's body into the void fly low overhead and that was a weird sight but a lot of heavy people got killed that year one way or another so we didn't really think nothing of it standing there in history walking up and down in it ready for a world which when I look at it now was hardly worth waiting for
write your little poems for the rest of your life rolling up pennies for the top ramen and beer because all the extras you can shoplift for your kids so they will feel normal in a digital jungle of bad movies and violent video games where a nigga is on top of the game with a bigger pistol in that drug kingdom of advanced dementia where no one buys any books or says yes to beautiful until it all ends up on You Tube where depression hurts and no one gives a fuck anyway unless you're stalking them with the fake identity that made you want to write a poem in the first place
back to scars on a trigger. gravestone streets skid marked from her bloodthirsty Bratz doll face. chandelier of tits in a shotgun shack by the tracks of an LP tacked to saber tooth tar paper. adult beverages with get down syndrome. three lines of the haiku on snow while kissing a belly button from the inside. 60 second stopover with a 25 Minutes to Go new coffin haircut mimicking the lost coordinates conducive to all flesh.
I'll drive my Chevy to the levee and get interrogated with three dollars in a wallet bulging with more false hopes than what I could find in an emergency room filled with cranksters so what the fuck I'll at least get a candidate lawn sign that will help the cops find my house a little easier next time when I'm out front screaming how I'll do something about it
all those years ago today on your birthday we took all the pills and went and saw the Doors at the Hollywood Bowl with Morrison screaming so beautiful man we never even wrote a poem about it but so what who thought it would mean anything and it really doesn't because it was ceremony and we were there as unkempt literati with a Small Press literary magazine ready to come out on mimeo which didn't really mean shit to a tree but so anyhow my bro I am thinking of you again on this another summer night all these years away from the words we once thought were as unstoppable as an iron lung in a breezy field of butterflies
Bass Lake with the Angels that 4th of July when I was about 14 my dad dug the chicks on the back of the bikes in their white bras we were driving through into nothing but were a family just like them so his Iron Worker ass shut the fuck up that one and only time after that he talked too much when I wasn't listening