"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. __________________________________
it's this time of night that I come home buzzed from the lot I own on the side of the road that I call a flea market where I spread out all the broken shit that most nobody wants but some do and I make enough for a six-pack or gas or some pop for my kids and a lot of the fuckers say I'm a veteran I'm fucked-up my legs go numb I'm hurting you got any whiskey or these tired women beaten by family and life the assholes who call themselves men I'm sorry but I can't keepfrom crying I got nowhere togo would you take 50 cents or all the others who ask hey you got some hits or a beer I need a line I just want to sit here and get fucked up until the pain goes away or the tears can I camp here tonight can you give me this coffee maker I'll pay you on the first man but that day never comes so that's why I hate this country
I had 6 t0 7 grand in a jar when I was selling chronic to hillbillies and Indians but I gave up half when the man came around every two weeks to collect and that put it all into perspective I was still in the bucks but not writing the poems so the shotgun aside I took what I wanted and told them all to get fucked
a Rory Calhoun look-alike is ravishing in boho chic when the scarcest of gauchos wearing rubber masks of retrospect kick his impenetrable ass between the porticoes of infinite space just like the movies
the teleprompter speaks for a tortured puppet who has no idea how many homes he owns but has designed a strategy to fight against you the homeless the buttfuckers the pregnant the atheists the starving the dopers and drunks the cripples who always look down anyway away from a luxury those who have it all could never have achieved but by facing the real test the work the faith the service a complete culture of bullshit designed to make it all feel better when they're kicking you telling you to stand up stand up stand up nothing is inevitable here
death wants more wine not more death that prick already took three of my sweet bitches but I'm still here they're still here so with no street corner available I scratch a watch crystal deep with my initials during one long hydroxed breath at a redundant crossroads like I'm supposed to be scared of wearing blackface shit I ain't got any whiteface left