"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. __________________________________
THIS WAS WRITTEN WHEN I WAS 19-YEARS-OLD, HITCHHIKING THROUGH OREGON:
POEM IN MEMORY OF ALAN WILSON
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