"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. __________________________________
PLAY WHAT YOU BELIEVE IN THE FUTURE TV JUNKMAN FRED SANFORD ADVISED AYLER
this is my opinion nothing goes for sure we can take life can't give death back want to suck out your hole the outlet/fingers vibrate/ (arms crisscrossing like all the telephone poles along Highway 101 collapsing) /sounds of a cat with hairballs choking then they play the national anthem when the country music station goes off the air/ ("...every town is the same as the last, the future looks worse than the past...") the winos with the shits on Grant Ave., S.F. I know/where are you sweet Gypsy Norman Tibet-Alaska-maybe back to West Virginia where are you Hip Eddie (wearing M's sunglasses: "They're rapping what we rapped ten years ago, man!") where are you M! this light bulb this 12' by 15' room also today waiting/carrying boxes of food for the people at the Abundant Food Center no one wants to work they are Americans hick/primitive/ rustic remains of 1850 the only colored people come when it's potato picking time (the Deputy Sheriff: "...we're proud of that...") you can taste the discrimination/ America is dying/ I remember coming across from Canada the fat decadent border guards-American/ "...want to check your things..." "...what for..." "...we're told to check everyone..." "...how come that family in the Cadillac got through without being stopped..." no answer then they wouldn't let the French Canadians across not enough money/ "...fuck your country..." oh yes-yes what are borders tear down those walls let's all copulate the open road the open road Arizona/Utah/Texas/Montana /too spoiled America is too soft GET OUT love it then leave it sure those sweet young hitchhikers "...ass tight, all night..." oh my god oh my vision of god the highways are too surreal remember Debbie drinking whiskey with that old sailor in the Jaguar from Monterey a living Hemingway/ the way we acted each other's part/ America is dying what did Kerouac say: "...a rucksack revolution ...millions of Dharma bums going up to the hills to meditate and ignore society..." yeah that was early 50's look now Mr. camper/trailer/tourist/truck driving/DYING AMERICAN look those fuckers with thumbs out/ everywhere it is happening! it is happening! react/ take a razor blade and slit your eyeballs while gazing into the rear view mirror what is there to see- there is nothing like some asshole staring at me when I am not even there
he woke up dreaming he was President-elect there at the food bank not able to spell T-o-p R-a-m-e-n but still discussing the world-wide food crisis in the loudest of fuck you syllables with a couple of unactivated credit cards stapled to a sunken chest and so especially proud of a 30-year-old car and that time getting handcuffed for drunk driving in front of the Human Resource Center counting how many children he has by the tracks in his arms with three bindles to the slow motion wind yet still not recognizing most of the other names on his application
on TV shows these cops are always talking about the vic or the perp like it would take up too much time to say the whole word just as in real life when with nesting doll culpability you'll soon be fitting each description
the dead never told me anything I could use other than keep it up you'll be here soon and you know what fuck you motherfuckers is what I say being a first lieuy in the devil's army because actually I was thinking of those whores who let their kids go hungry when I sat there chopping lines awash in very cheap whiskey as they sucked my numb cock while occasionally glancing over at that cold stove like it was Iceland and someday we would all vacation there
I remember when I was young most of my friends seemed to have photos of the same guy an older brother standing next to a sanitary '55 who was now over in Vietnam but would soon be coming back from a free-fire zone to the Twilight Zone so that when I got drafted myself in '68 during Tet I thought what a crock of shit this is all for nothing while I dummied up at the L.A. Induction Center and after one year was granted a 4-F status which was actually harder to do than it sounds and a way longer story but I covered my ass and that is the point I wouldn't be here now if I would have went to their jack off war I am sure of that and each year on this day when I hear the stories of honor on the TV news I still feel the same way with no guilt at all what you did for your country may have been arguably groundless but what I did for myself was a fucking necessity
if you want to be me come back to the graveyard where I just now visited my sweet baby under cloudy moonlight with the headstones leaning backwards expecting the shadows like no one comes here sober and really no they don't so that has nothing to do with it I came to see heron my birthday ain't that fucking stupid because if she could spread her legs it would be dust and that would only throw me off
here in Oregon we have vote by mail so I sent off my ballot over a week ago but before I did I had my daughter who is in the 4th grade pencil in the little oval next to Obama's name a talisman to be sure because I've seen enough of these assholes in 58 years these Presidents who some of you would call great men but I wouldn't even piss on if their motorcade were on fire out in front of my house so I'm just sitting here today hoping we don't get fucked again while I drink a few beers with history
this is the last beer in the twelve pack and my partner just left after that healthy dose of pot butter I gave him because it's his birthday and his bike is down carburetion and my birthday is a week away to the day so we trampled the scorpions talking about Sturgis and all the bullshit fuck the cops and blah blah I forgot to mention the Evan Williams so he was pretty fucked-up but you know when you're born to die you might as well kiss your ass goodbye because that journey could end quickly with all of your photos blown across a dusky highway where no one is looking back
brings me back to the electric hangover crushing scorpions on Tweety Blvd. in snakeskin boots waiting to hear Sonny Boy blow when with sugar skulls for eyes she says soy una cabrona erotica and that could be just about right except for the part about pistol- whipping the wind but you mustn't turn away so I carry on living