THE FOLLOWING BOOKS
WERE PUBLISHED WITH
WORK OFF OF THIS BLOG!!!!



FOR MORE INFO ON HAPPY HOUR
AND HOW TO ORDER, CLICK HERE:

http://lokidesign.net/2356/2010/11/four-minutes-to-midnight-issue-eleven%E2%80%94happy-hour/

"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..."
-John Bennett


A new EBOOK!
FREE DOWNLOAD!
CLICK HERE FOR MORE INFO:
http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/pesticide-drift/9128215


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."
-GERALD NICOSIA


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
fucking around."
-Patrick Dunagan,
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.
__________________________________




12/29/09

Tender Species

always on the rims
just a foot away while
My Favorite Things
plays out the loud
speaker for all the
submerged people
with their message in
a bottle one cosmologic
night in Walmart
nation when nobody
sees the bullet-starred
sky screen off that
giant eyeball like a sieve

12/25/09



from: AMERICAN DIARY

a white dentist paid an
exhorbitant price for the
skull of Chief Joseph the
beloved Nez Perce leader
to use in his living room as
an ashtray while the asshole
watched his favorite TV shows
and ain't that America


12/14/09

URINAL
RAINBOWS

12/12/09



from: AMERICAN DIARY

fucker's found evidence
that T. Monk had bipolar
disorder and they gave
him the wrong meds
while he sat in a room
with a piano he never
played the whole six
months before he died
and ain't that America


12/10/09

ANOTHER BEER PLEASE

the half-white-great-
black-hope got his
peace prize today
talking about the
paradox of war
and it looks like I've
wasted yet another
vote although I
expected as much
nothing ever seems
to change but the
changes that never
come when you sit
waiting a lifetime

12/9/09

It's A Wonderful Life

drinking cold beer at 3 below 0
makes no sense just like
Bikers For Christ or "I won't
cum in your mouth." but
as that unknown asshole said
somebody's got to do it
so that means I'm your man
first thought best thought
like Bobby Dylan singing that
excruciating Christmas dog
shit just to feed us broken fuckers
somewhere down a long line
of mornings we don't wake up in
because George Bailey got
all turned around by suicide and
never touched any one of our
laugh at lives making nonexistence
a better reason for the season

12/8/09

ODD JOB

broke, heartsick and driftin'

"experts are divided"

12/6/09

What We Do

night before last me and the old lady were driving
around in the mountains looking for deer drinking
with an Indian partner in his 4WD pickup when
we hit deep snow and go off the road down into the
trees and get stuck real bad so with the hour of
daylight we got left we do everything we can to get
out but we're fucked pretty good and we huddle up
in the cab because there's no sense walking out
we're about 30 miles from any ranch and it's getting
damn cold so the dude trys his cell and we can't get
no one we know we keep losing the signal but 911
comes in pretty good so he has them call our kids
to let them know what's up and we sit drinking
the last of the Cobras before getting any half-assed
sleep we'll figure out something in the morning
but then around 2 AM the cell phone rings and it's
a Sheriff Sargent who wants to know our position
only he can't hear us so he has us press 1 for yes 2
for no on the pad and after some call backs and
fucking around we try to get through to him as best
we can where we think we are and then we realize
if the cops are coming we better pick up all the beer
cans and hide the rifle our partner is a felon and so
there we sit nodding in and out when around 5
AM we see headlights coming up the road and it's
Klamath Search and Rescue and we get out and
they ask if we're all right blah blah and the Deputies
are pretty cool they put us in the back of a 1 ton
Sheriff's rig and we back on out of there to a junction
where there's over 20 more cop rigs and the one
Deputy tells them all over the radio everything is
ok and everybody splits so these 2 cops up front
then tell us they were going to get a helicopter out at
daybreak if they couldn't find us and in another day
we'd be on the news it's 10 degrees out the one cop
says I ask them what this is going to cost us and
they say nothing it's what we do so they drive us
all home right to the front door and we thank them
profusely and watch them drive away when our
partner says that's the first time he's ever been in
the back of a cop car without being handcuffed and I
tell him come on in we got a sixer of Miller talls in the
fridge it's only an hour before the store opens up

12/1/09

Last Ghost In America

it's like not one cloud
in Jan Kerouac's
blue eyes over the
parched roofs of
those who don't
want no more trouble
marked for brutal
destinies anyway in
unpaid-for cars going
nowhere in particular
with a drum beat
the synchronicity of
diseased blood
disregarding warning
signs the drunken
screams the facial
recognition because
love was the only way
out now no one of us
will ever get back in

11/29/09

Marginalia

mirror for
headstone

11/23/09

SUBFEASTERS

these dirty asshole
songs for the starving
about what a great
country this used to
be on the stinking
seats of chairs where
the hemorrhoidal will
tell all about family and
canned laughter as long
as it's somebody else
who goes to bed hungry

11/19/09

Mexico

to Opstedal

nodding out in Hussong's
with your fat dealer's
wallet while out on the
Avenida some assholes
from the San Gabriel
Valley are ripping your
vintage Velzy-Jacobs
board from out of that
glinting unlocked rig
as the blonde bitch baring
her tight midriff slaps you
across your puckered lips
and calls you a fucking queer
during her own personal
endless summer throwing
yet a few more of those dead
dogs way down after you

THE INCHES

for Billy

what women want

ten inches and an apology

what women get

six inches and an excuse

11/15/09

Shot Caller

family photos
hang in an
emergency
room where
blue veins got
tangled in
red tape behind
bullet proof
glass that
could also
reflect your
skull with two
eyes glowing
set stationary in
the rear window
of a primered
'64 Chevelle
pulling out from
the parking lot
onto Redemption
Ave. in soft rain

11/14/09

STRAW DOG

braille on beer cans

"this is not your
father's moon"

11/11/09



AGE-OLD QUESTIONS



where am I



where's my car


11/9/09

To Kick The Footlights Out Again

I live the kind of life
that most men
only piss on a last
chance for last poets
after the fucking
"...looks like a Volkswagen
engine." -Mel Clay
so when we get caught in
our T cells with an iPod and
the letters of Paul Bowles to
Mr. Rogers on Kindle the
most incredible next thing
any of us shits will be
reading is I told you so

11/8/09

59 & HOLDING

tomorrow is my birthday
and it's like the end of
Godfather 2 where
Michael is sitting on the
bench looking like
hammered shit and the
leaves are blowing
and most everyone is
dead and all that guilt
coagulates and it's so
fucking lonely with not
one question asked
like who could have
an answer anyway other
than yes I am afraid

11/6/09



GOOD TO GO

in memory of Morton Marcus

You're good to
go they always
tell me with a
latex mask smile,
I'm already gone
I tell them, then
they look at me.


11/5/09

Little Wing

for Billy

in my mind we're leaving
California $28.07
with a Raven .25 auto
and a half eaten
bag of Baken-ets and
you're too stoned
to give me head "the
truckers will see"
shit they're fucking
high too baby so
I sip on my 24 oz. Modelo
especial while you
jam a matchbook under
a Stevie Ray cassette
and I roll all over the bed
and signal to pass in
yet another bad dream
with both of us pitched
down a grapevine
hill where those who are
lost mustn't ever wake up

11/4/09


NOW
DATA
SUGGESTS
THAT
WITHIN
A
DECADE
OR
TWO
THERE
WILL
BE
SAILBOATS
AT
THE
NORTH
POLE
DURING
THE
SUMMER

11/1/09

Healing The Ghoul

they turned back
the clock on The Day
of the Dead with a
hangover like speechless
inoculation using Ativan
as chalk to scrape initials
on St. Mark's Place all the
way back to the San
Bernardino Freeway for
everyone who feeds

10/28/09

-------------------------
the soft whiteness
of her skin offered
little contrast to the
strips of adhesive
tape plastered
across her mouth
-------------------------

10/25/09

DEBONED SLAVE

in every laceration

"we're so fucking
beautiful"

10/22/09




A PLASTIC OCEAN NOW

has found a wide array
of marine debris
inside the bellies
of dead birds, a wide
array of marine debris has
found a wide array inside,
including "six lighters
in one chick, a complete
syringe with the needle,
a small flashlight, various
small light bulbs, combs,
toothbrushes, parts of
flip-flops and fishing
tackle." inside the
bellies of dead birds,
during that time, he has
found a wide array of
marine debris. A
proportional amount in
a human being would weigh
nearly five pounds during
that time in a human,
"It's a plastic ocean now."
"No matter where you
are, 25 billion pounds in
tiny bits of plastic looking
out over the Pacific into
the world's food chain, say
those inside the bellies of
dead birds no matter where
no getting over it no
getting away from it," he says.



10/20/09

Last Man On Earth

and
a box
of tissues

10/19/09

PRE-OWNED WORLD OF HURT

raised to
be stupid

10/17/09




He sat down before the
stolen typewriter and
contemplated the blank
sheet of paper in the
machine's roller.



10/14/09

ENCOUNTERING LAW ENFORCEMENT IN AMERICA:

  • Stay calm and stand your ground.
  • Maintain direct eye contact.
  • Pick up children, but do so without bending down or turning your back on the Law Enforcement Officer.
  • Back away slowly.
  • Do not run. Running triggers a chase response in Law Enforcement, which could lead to an attack.
  • Raise your voice and speak firmly.
  • If the Law Enforcement Officer seems aggressive, raise your arms to make yourself look larger and clap your hands.
  • If in the unusual event that a Law Enforcement Officer attacks you, fight back with rocks, sticks, tools or any items available.

10/13/09

The Vapors

she felt pretty Beat in
the rain out front of
City Lights with a
run in one black
stocking an obvious
slight to the moment
but most things pass
in a flash if she can
remember correctly
like now fifty years later

10/11/09

Dusty Feather

this neck cocksucker at the store
counts out my cans a nickel a piece
for deposit and he tells me you know
next month this law takes effect
where you can't pick up any beer
cans off the highway anymore and I
bite why is that man I ask because
they're Indian artifacts HA HA HA
and that was pretty funny I quess but
on the way to get the 12 pack out of
the cooler I pocket a bottle of ibuprofen
when the fuck ain't looking because
I'm hungover and way too fuzzy to
remember there is so much more to pain

10/10/09

FOOLS

when Greg Hall calls
drunk on Beam
don't wake me up
I'm only 27-years-old
and I never put the
cap back on the Tapatio
so you tell me why
do fools fall in love
I took back the night
only to get gang raped
in broad daylight because
I wanted to live a million
years without getting
bored in my danskins
now I'm butt hurt
as if loving you too long
didn't really make me feel
right like what the fuck
is up with that the rock is
still my pillow and you're
still talking the blues
but it's only me shooting
the finger to the sky

10/7/09

If You Ain't A Low Rider You Ain't Shit

in memory of Brett Purvis

a split lip battling the Spics but they
kissed some car doors themselves
so that don't even count with the Crown
Royal or the reds or the broken hearts
from all the white bitches with the opalescent
eyeshadow who grew up in the San Fernando
Valley and gave the best head you ever got
when Thee Midnighters rocked Joe Yokum's
world but go figure ESSE GUY how'd you
get that lace to stay before you spray painted
your ride so pretty or how'd your momma
get that carnitas so tender fuck YOU ARE MY
BROTHER so cut the shit put your piece away
that was Inglewood motherfucker the change
came when Keith utilized the fuck-up with
his amp on Satisfaction just a cunt hair down
the road from Going Home when we were
strong on Sunset Blvd. with the 4-Track
blaring what we thought was freedom happy
and lost long before we became old men
lengueta que besa los angeles

10/5/09

Lifer

sleep will always rust
when you're dead fumbling
with Jesus' handmade thumb
piano to ward off the tall children
with foul tempers who re-upped to get
you through the night with no bad dreams
so the rest of us could kill you all over again

10/3/09

YOUR NOTHING

nothing
compares
to it

10/1/09




IT'S YOUR

TURN TO

GO FOR

THE DOPE




9/30/09

Stand By Me

sometime balls deep
you'll have her
legs up thrown over
your shoulders
and being the sweetheart
that you are between
strokes you'll kiss her feet
then realize they do
smell worse than yours

9/24/09

Indian Summer

this morning the sun slurs its
color because of the fires and it
reminds me of LA purple haze
on reds just like Science Fiction
but way back then we still went
out the front door like we do now
going to work so when I pull into
my flea market with all that shit
I left out the day before and I find
Freddie Schonchin my old time
partner and great great great
grandson of Chief Schonchin of
the kick-ass Modoc War crashed
out in a pile of clothes I wake him
up with an ice cold King Cobra just
to start the whole thing all over again

9/23/09




OR STARLIGHT ON A SNAPSHOT
OF SMOLDERING CHROME


But that's beside the point.




9/19/09

One Mojo Hand Clapping

for Jim Hayes

their faces are spread too
thin to begin any smile
just be true to yourself
whatever lie it takes

9/12/09

Someone Who Loved You

inside the complications of the
conundrum a flushing toilet of
lost souls has absolutely no
relation to anything you have
ever done or thought about
because fearing death and raising
a few more of us little fuckers
who are just going to be as scared
and lost still isn't proof enough
that anyone should ever be alive

8/31/09







ju
dgment






8/30/09

A Nigger For President

way back in the late 60's
when my peers encouraged
me to take drugs I'd go to
these parties and there'd be
all these Vietnam Vets
just fucking back beautiful
whacked out motherfuckers
still wearing the camo and
they'd tell me of some Armory
they ripped off and how it
was all going to come down
they would take over the
country with The Panthers
and don't worry don't worry
and I didn't really I was young
all ready with my 1-Y classification
and I'd hit that joint nodding my
head with those dope-vision-
eyeballs-of-cartoony-disbelief
but you know how it all turned
out John Lennon ruined the life
of a great American poet Yoko Ono
Jimi gargled his own fusty vomit
and Alan Wilson died along the
river of no tomorrow on a scuffed
up album cover so check this out
I get these young guys coming over
about once a week here now in my
twilight years telling me get your
shit together dude buy all the ammo
you can we got a nigger for president
the shit will come down but
it doesn't compare to the old days
although they do bring the beer that
crap they listen to ain't really country

8/29/09

IN THIS LIFE YOU WILL TOUCH EVERYONE WHO DOESN'T MATTER

absurdist entertainments

"that truth was
overrated"

8/24/09

1%

talked to Al Masarik today on the
phone in Sparks who is now suffering
the onset of Alzheimer's and dealing
with the VA people but he's hanging
in writing some damned beautiful short
stories about the experience and he told
me he heard from Ann Menebroker who
told him Kell Robertson ain't doing so good
now in his 80's living in a chicken coop but
John Bennett up in Ellensburg is just fine still
writing his shards and we had some laughs
talking about all that old poetry bullshit and
he's still drinking and I'm still drinking so that's
fitting I quess at least we're still alive although
I wouldn't want to be 18 again never dreaming
I'd be as fucking disillusive as I am right now

8/22/09

Not Dead Yet

bloated at 41 in a hospital
bed the gut and that
rig hooked up to make
you breathe but you
look so gone motherfucker
liver shutting down and
just a couple of months
ago I pulled out your
tooth and we all laughed
and drank yet this is a
real poem in time what
we wait in line for because
you're one of the best
so they've induced a
coma on your ass and
your brown eyes open
only in 10 second intervals
when my kids speak to
you in braille hallucination




The group try their
cellphones but
nobody has a signal.




8/19/09

APPLIED TO ANY SCAR

one man's
sweetheart
is another
man's whore

8/17/09

Stratagem

little too
late to
know that

you would
have held
me even

now with
this blown
off face

because
every unsung
wants to

go forever
but fuck
all that who

needs the
pendulum
cross

when my
magic trick
birth

certificate
means it wasn't
a dream

8/15/09



ONE DRAGONFLY INTO CHAOS

every page
reads all
the other
pages


8/12/09

THIS AIN'T REALLY A POEM

but for my 2 or 3
hardcore fans who
know where I'm
coming from I'd
like to let you
know the USDA
guy was here today
looking like a fucking
CSI cop in pale blue
shirt wearing an
expensive watch to
inspect my new
toilet and everything
is cool I beat the
devil with a bigger
devil and now it's
business as usual the
beer cans out the
front door and me
rolling joints for the
inept because you
won't see me using the
damn thing but if
you're ever in the
neighborhood and need
to take a shit call me
on my cell 541-892-7100
and bring the Charmin
maybe some whisk then
you can tell me what
I already think I know

Siren's Song

jungled up in late autumn under
the Interstate freezing half to
death when you realize your
scrotum has sucked up your
nuts against your body to keep
that sperm warm and cozy for a
monster fuck you won't ever have

8/6/09

6 Mexicans

when I wasn't quite as stupid as I
am now I had an art gallery on the
Sacramento River with my then
girlfriend Marta Matulich who was
a fabric artist right there in a little
town called Walnut Grove and we
would party with all the usual whacked
out fucks you always make friends with
but there was this one dude Tony Coyne
from Perth who would always tell me
he was a heavyweight boxer ranked
third in Australia with that thick accent
of his and he was a big motherfucker so
the more we drank the more we drank
but he was a good partner he just missed
boxing and would always bitch about it
so one day at the bar I had behind the
big room where Marta showcased all
of her dolls I told him I'll fight you man
and gave him my best punch which was
pretty funny because the next thing I
knew I was on the floor about 20 feet
from the bar shaking it off trying to get
it together and he's standing there and
I think fuck this boxing shit and dive
at his legs and knock him down and
we're all over the room kicking and
rolling and after awhile it becomes
pointless so we get up laughing and sit
back down to have another beer and
he tells me you're my brother mate and
that makes me feel pretty damned good
until Marta walks in pissed off seeing
all the heel marks from our shoes covering
those one inch tongue and grooved walls
so we split and go right behind the gallery
to the street below where this farmworker
joint The Porthole was and I watch him
kick the living shit out of 6 Mexicans

8/5/09

Ghost Writer

just the facts mang
because there is
no Book of the Half
Dead so dummy up
when the feeling hits
take it real slow like
hitchhiking Whittier
Boulevard with
Thee Midniters
back in '65 and those
pretty brown eyes
catch yours with all
that hennaed hair
feathered out the
tinted window just
for that one second
before she gives you
the finger and her
girlfriends laugh
reverbing it even
further into
failed literature

8/1/09

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM

bleached pantie

methamphetamine

cum

7/30/09






ONE
OF
THE
GOALS
OF
THE
SWINE
FLU
VACCINE
IS
DEPOPULATION





Baby Pictures

one time I was smoking a joint
with John Giorno over there at
222 Bowery talking about those
very early found poems of his
and he told me man that's like
looking at baby pictures and
that was pretty cool if you think
about it digging somebody's
work then finding out they don't
even give a shit about it at all
anymore so then once in Santa
Cruz during the Red Night Tour
he was telling me Bug Death
was a bad title for a book and that
could be right I haven't read the
whole thing through in almost 15
years just those revised sections
I've worked on but I'm too old for it
now if that makes any sense like
those moldy photo albums at a yard
sale full of faces you can only wonder
about for at least 30 seconds before
you go over to check out the LPs

7/17/09

The Abstract Truth

forget sewing memory
it's like taking pills
who counts after
awhile until those
mortuary restroom
walls start closing in
and you don't feel so
good it's the same
thing why remember
anything like Manson
said "don't think" or
Jon Voight in Heat too
cool to fucking care
even though you think
he might or Ayler doing
Universal Indians
with his alto lyrics
defying all subvocal
speech because nobody
would have remembered
if he was only talking
to himself

7/14/09

OF GUNFIGHTER BALLADS AND TRAIL SONGS

to Junkyard Rob, guitar playing
motherfucker, horseman, friend


SPRAGUE RIVER
--A missing Sprague
River man was shot in
the back of the head
and then buried on the
property of a woman
accused of murder-
ing him, according to
Klamath County Cir-
cuit Court records.
Deanna Brindle,
47, of Beatty has been
charged with the mur-
der of Robert Kincaid,
54, who disappeared
from his Sprague River
home July 7. A body
believed to be Kin-
caid was found in a
shallow grave Thurs-
day on Brindle's prop-
erty off Drews Road
in the Tablelands area
between Sprague River
and Beatty.
"Deanna Brindle
shot Robert Kincaid
in the back of the head
with a 4-10 shotgun
while at her residence,"
according to a probable
cause statement filed
in Klamath County
Circuit Court.
Kincaid was last
seen July 7, leaving his
Sprague River property
for an 11-mile horseback
ride. He was riding one
horse and leading another-
er one.

7/11/09

My Favorite?

a good friend and colleague
who edited this prestigious
East Coast lit mag once
told me over a few shots
of Hornitos how Bukowski
one time had sent him some
poems with a note saying "if
you don't like these, I'll write
some more" or some shit
like that and I thought that
was tits just about to the
point if you're King of the
Mountain like these Rock Stars
singing about being poor and
I went home to go reread
The Roominghouse Madrigals

7/7/09

A HOLY LITANY IN YOUR SILLY MOOD

more people

more people
are dying in

are dying in
the United

the United
States from

States from
drug over-

drug over-
doses than

doses than
from gun-

from gun-
shot wounds

shot wounds

7/3/09

FUZZY ASMOPHERICS


"Jim Morrison passed on
the invitation to play
Woodstock for fear of
being assassinated
onstage."

7/1/09

Stains

the stains in your
shorts can't really
match the stains in
your heart from
everybody leaving
you all alone and
don't even mention
the claymation of
your fucked up liver
or the lost hours
stained with too
many false hopes
brought to you by
Dr. Death it's not
your time chavalo
so fucking take up
whittling and watch
your back the poems
only last so long and
you don't have too
many left before your
next prescription

6/27/09

GREG HALL 1946-2009

GREG HALL, author of the books
"Flame People," and "Inamorata," died
Tuesday, June 23rd at his home in
San Jose, California of an apparent
heart attack. He was 62.
"Greg Hall alternately inspired and
exasperated fellow poets with his brilliant
imagination, his gentleness, his humility
and his wit," said Stephen Kessler, a poet
and longtime friend. "He went through
periods of self-doubt or spiritual conversion
often enough to discard writings that he no
longer believed in, and surely threw away
more excellent original poems than most
poets write in a lifetime."
Mr. Hall was born in Birmingham,
Alabama on October 19th, 1946.
He spent one year in the United States
Navy in his late teens, and the experience
was not a good one, setting the stage for a
future life as a poet. In the early 1970s,
he was a major force in the Santa Cruz
poetic renaissance.
Most of Mr. Hall's life was spent
living in Northern California in spare apart-
ments, working in hospitals or nursing
homes, yet still always finding time to
create his unique poetry.
"Greg's "Flame People" really inspired
me, I still steal from him," said Bay Area
fiction and humor writer, Jon Alan Carroll.
"Somebody should do a collected works as
tribute."
Writing in his introduction to Mr.
Hall's first book, "Flame People", the poet
Robert Bly said, "In Gregory Hall, "surrealism"
is not a doctrine, but an admission of grief
beyond his control."
Mr. Hall leaves behind a son, daughter,
and three grandchildren.



AT LEAST I DIED WITH A SWORD IN MY HAND


In most of these pages
the only thing left even vaguely gold
continues as a careful harmony
my fingers and the searchings of my heart
describing the unheard answers
a man who answers
questions like yours...
Much has vanished--
The clamor and the poison,
the usefulness of further transfusions,
the possibility of self-defined grace...
Still, a certain connection
to those who were injured
falling from horses
and to those who were compelled to sing
because the world was suddenly taken over
by robbers and thieves--
And because the ocean
answered every question
left unsolved by the wind and the night.
Although in page after page
my losses grew
something else also grew--
Now I can feel
what I was trying to say
and from these failures
something green and unbroken
is rising and running towards the shore--
Inside these shards of feeling
lost nations and lost wars
that which was deathless inside you
was addressed by what was deathless in me
and for those who can't believe in death
I recommend you go find
some American poet
who can be
ironic
about
Love
----Greg Hall

6/25/09

FUCK DEATH

for Dirty Greggie

when your women die
when most all your friends die
when the poets die

there will still always be that
phone call with even
more news

perhaps that you're also dead

and you'll want to go to bed
then and get up and get drunk
again and maybe fuck then go
back to sleep with the stereo
on playing some song about
being so god damned lonely

6/22/09

NEW SHOES FOR THE GRAVE

when she turned 94
I bought my grandma
these leather shoes
for $100 on sale at
House Of Shoes with
dope money I made
from suckers she was
pissed that's what she
said

"new shoes for the
grave..."

she died one Father's
Day at 96 while I
played with my then
3-year-old daughter
in the yard but those
shoes still had a few
miles left on them she
was drinking her beer

I'll die in old shoes that'll
smell like ass then later
glory in the closing glint
of white satin coffin lid
like it's the moon

1956

hot summer

Illinois

smell of roses

carefree wonderous night
holding my grandma's hand

6/21/09




FEVER OF UNKNOWN ORIGIN

The young man gets tired of
waiting for his father to die.



6/18/09

What The Poor People Are Doing

not quite summer
but still my jalapenos
ain't growing too
good yet and I do like
to fry those puppies
up on the griddle
until there's these
little spots of black
over a faint white
skin that's when
you sprinkle on the
carne asada seasoning
and crack that first jug
of blue agave just
to figure where it
all went wrong

6/15/09

The Heal Up

those old Indian cowboys
wouldn't worry about
the heal up too much
they'd just say Mr. Fred
have another shot quit
acting white and the next
thing I knew it was yet
another morning in a one
horse town turned inside
out by the relative calm
of not understanding
the reason for time

6/11/09

ONE MORE VACANCY AT THE BEAT HOTEL

"the end
is the beginning"

was Harold
Norse's

last words
before

dieing on a
monday at 92

with his pages
pulled

up like a
blanket against

other voices down
the hall

6/8/09

Not Feeling Too Good Myself

sometimes when I
tongue these broken
teeth it makes me
remember Jack Micheline
and his spit all over
my face screaming his
latest poem about how
everything is beautiful
and how he won't take no
for an answer but I still
tell him it's really more like
taking a shit on a Greyhound
Bus man so he gets all pissed
off walking away telling me
to go fuck myself and I feel
a little better but not that much

6/5/09

BETTER LIVING THROUGH POETRY

some years ago when I was editing This Is
Important I published a poem by Todd
Moore where he talked about his father
pulling out his own tooth with a pair of pliers
and then swishing some whiskey around in
his mouth and packing the hole with cotton
well yesterday a friend came over with a half
G of Black Velvet complaining about a back
tooth that had been killing him for awhile now
so we drink a little bit and then he says pull
out my tooth man I can't take it no more and
I remember Moore's poem and go out to the
tool box in my truck and get a pair of needle
nose Vise-Grips and go back into the house
where we have a few more shots before I
clamp down on that sucker and pop it out
with one hard yank like some rotten stinking
vegetable so then he spits a little blood into a
bowl when my wife brings over the cotton and
he says thanks a lot bro the fucking dentist
wanted to charge me $275 hey it's not a
problem I tell him just better living through
poetry and we all laugh and keep on drinking

6/4/09





YOU WILL
KNOW
HOW
TO KILL
EVEN THE
MOST
VIOLENT
ACHE




5/27/09

El Paso

there is this Garth Brooks
song where you've lost
all your fingers and the
last dance is for God and
any dream is over only if
her tits smell like the rope
of addiction that J. Cash
hung himself with on HANK
FM when you really couldn't
keep from crying because
there is no finale to a pretty
face spread out on the only
spot in the road that anybody
will ever get any reception

5/25/09

TOGETHER THROUGH LIFE

sometimes when I'm sober I
hate your fucking guts but
now that I'm flat wasted I
hate you even more so Jesus
don't laugh I've studied my
wrists for years and right there
it is the blues and that's important
so when I write a poem about how
everything should be all better in
my imaginary rockstar pockets
those Rolling Stones and Bob Dylan
don't even attempt to give anybody
their money because that could
only fucking feed the whole world
and what would that say about a
pop culture or how far I've gotten
with a scrap of paper and a couple
of near empty complimentary pens



THEY WON THE WAR


They saved the world.



5/22/09

Bus Stop Vortex

there ain't no prophylactic
machines in the rest rooms
of the stations of the cross
so that's why it's best to hit
that highway running with
your thumb up your ass
because it's all designed for
her pleasure anyhow and
making that invisible crucifix
across your chest could only
indicate you're selling drugs
and try and explain all that
to the sheriff in the next town
over where a map printed with
disappearing ink really means
you're still lost without her

5/16/09

Unfriendly Ghosts

this mind smear like a slow
PC taking that sentence
down in long black lines
goes about ten miles out of
Commerce, TX where the
trigger of her love gun scares
this convenience store punk
and we grab the jerky and
fortified wine and head back
over to the graveyard and
fuck and fuck and still that
ache won't stop and some of
those assholes at school say
we're haunted but I think if I
could get my whole head up
her pussy and take a good
look around I could figure
out who to kill first

5/14/09

FRIENDLY GHOSTS

the astronaut glove

on an emptied car lot

5/12/09





ggggggggg
ggggggggg
ggggggggg
HABITUALS SONS
HABITUALSOF
HABITUALS SONS
HABITUALSOF
HABITUALS SONS
HABITUALSOF
HABITUALS SONS
HABITUALSOF
HABITUALS SONS
ggggggggg
ggggggggg
ggggggggg




5/11/09

Mr. Congeniality

the back-alley
abortion
crawled off
and became
citizen of
the month so
don't think
you have it
hard when
the jet crash
limbs falling
like rain onto
foreclosure
houses spell
out your
name as a
2nd runner-up

5/10/09

people
are
fucking
right
now
in
that
house

5/9/09

A Poor Man's Guide To Self-Medication

three in the morning comes too fast with
George Jones on the box and empty
beer bottles on the floor bracing up a new
pair of panties in town when all eyes
dissolve like the vicodin into an afternoon
that couldn't care less who wakes up

5/7/09





LONG TIME NO SEE

make up a
fake poet
and post
flyers for
a reading




5/5/09

WORKING MAN BLUES

Ball Peen Jimmy liked to call
his cock Man o' War in front
of those colored girls on their
lunch break down at the X-Ray
Cafe and most of us guys would get
a laugh out of it but some thought
he was just a loudmouthed prick
until on some friday nights at any
of Norwalk's seedier clubs that
8 0z. silver hammer would come
up and put another dimple on an
Aqua Velva-ed chin and everybody
had to scramble out to their 20-
year-old cars and back home to the
House of Wax carrying a bucket of the
Colonel's chicken that a pissed off wife
would bounce against the rented wall

5/4/09

5/3/09

Stelae By Starlight

Don Van Vliet is almost as dead
as his favorite poet
Philip Larkin who now is
as dead as Myrna Loy
whose hair still lives all over my
face until I remember it is Mina Loy
and her silly legs wrap across my back

5/2/09

Hibernator

you were here first

lightweight skin
and impressions
in mud

into the brain stem

like processing the
horse's complexion
with pockets
turned out

or a blood trail tainted
with the lipstick kiss

because 100 years
from now no one
will know who
we are

5/1/09

Obit In An Edition Of 100 Copies

for Al Masarik

the clank of a mimeo
machine beats like
two hearts fucking on
the freshly smudged
satin sheets of the
whole word made flesh
just twelve tubes of ink
away from addiction
inside the infamous Small
Press Hotel where we all
died for d. a. levy's sins







A recent Dylan painting evokes
a disappearing America.







4/30/09

4/28/09

CRUEL SACRAMENT

first blood on
fallen shards of
moon just because
you're young and
must suck the clit
eventually like
scabs wishing on
a scar that is so
perfect years later
even her fingers are
going to remember

4/27/09

Poetic Justice

drinking pulque through
a torn hoary
mask would

look funny in an obsidian
mirror but the
20th Century Fox

died of AIDS years ago
so our dance is over
and I'll just

warm these tortillas
on the manifold
of my disappearing

Pontiac near the
last exit
to Xochimilco

where Sal Paradise
once spit out bennies
like broken teeth

4/25/09

Let Me Down Real Slow

on the palm-lined
street of a PlayStation 2
game your pastel
bungalow blares forth the
telling screams of
virtual unreality when
her stomach bile
green eyes tell you that
she's lying again




GHETTO TERRARIUMS



who gives a fuck


and who doesn't




4/20/09

PHILIP WHALEN MEMORIAL .357

I live here for 24 years
fighting and fucking Indians
and some cocksucker from
Calif. turns me in for an
outhouse and not having a
proper septic and I get the
letter from Klamath county
explaining what I got to do
or my family hits those red
cinders so I send out the
proverbial poor me begging
letter and my one saint
patron comes through as
always but the famous-archive-
25-medical-patent-holding-
motherfucking doctor in
Miami who has my poems
under glass sends only $50
even though the book I sent
with the request was $10 and
that's cool it's beer money
but now what's beautiful is I
also apply to Poets In Need
there in Berkeley run by poets
who wouldn't piss on me if it
made me smell better and they
send over a $2,000 grant in the
name of the great Philip W. and
with that and what the saint
sent I pay back taxes get my
permits and the test holes dug
to hold them off a little longer
and all the change goes to buying
this soothing 2" snubbie pistol
a poor man's insurance policy
because I'm still lacking the
other $8,000 the system will
cost and now it's all up to a USDA
rural development section 504
loan or face that street where
the shit always runs downhill
beer warm beer a warm beer at six
six in the morning the morning
after the balls those balls
slap ass her ass means it's monday
monday again and
the hangover another
hangover has yet
to kick in kick in in

4/15/09

Ascension

Jesus Christ wasn't
Jesus Christ until
he became John
Coltrane.

4/14/09

WHITE HOUSE DOG

1.

genitals
as a marker

2.

faith in
loaded guns

4/10/09

In Search Of A Definition

"In a real dark
night of the soul,"
observed F. Scott
Fitzgerald, "it is
always three o'clock
in the morning."

4/8/09

Language Arts

All smiles behind
the duct tape.

4/5/09

Looter Eye Shadow

Shot with a price
tag gun because
she plundered time.

3/31/09

GLASS HALF EMPTY

a few years back I hooked into
this superfine intellectual
bitch there at Beyond Baroque
waiting for Viggo Mortensen to
show up and read some real
poetry and I ended up moving in
with her for two months of
complete bullshit always having
to hear her talk about blowing
the janitor at Planet Hollywood
and you know that was the
real one in Hollywood before
they closed it down and I was
a waitress there when Tommy
Lee gave me his phone number
once and blah blah blah but besides
sucking righteous dick there
wasn't really anything intellectual
about her so I got damn lucky scoring
a job painting Ed Ruscha's bathroom
walls and getting the hell out of
Dodge back to Oregon where every
motherfucker with legs is stupid




HER
RIPE
BROWN
MELONS
CAME
FREE
AND
HE
TOOK
A
BIG
BLACK
NIPPLE
INTO
HIS
MOUTH



3/28/09

Small Press Hero

dead angels on the grillwork from
driving straight to hell in the
tattered Goodwill box La-Z-Boy
with your framed food stamp
award letter placed right up there
next to the Marquis Who's Who
in the World mahogany wall plaque
you claimed you never got in
the mail so at least that too was free
and it won't mean shit if you bounce
a few empty 24 oz. King Cobra
cans off of it as the overpaid Negroes
play basketball on the only TV
channel you can get to come in when
yet another idea for a poem hits you

3/25/09

_________________________
g
g
g
g
g
c
I
KNOW
WHAT
YOU
ARE
GOING
THROUGH
gggg
gggg
gggg
gggg
gggggggggggggg
gggggggggggggg

for some strange reason

3/22/09

ONE LAST FUCK ON THE LOWEST PLANET

for Andrew Yep

this is so not what it was
purported to be like black
white and grainy akin to
Karloff in that first The
Mummy looking deep
into the reflecting pool
which also reminds me of
Mr. Brion Gysin who once
stared into the mirror for
about 23 hours until he
saw that far-off cavalry
coming through a horse
thumped dust realizing we
only get so many hard-ons

3/18/09

Life Support

mortality like
my best poem
time-lapsed
and receding
into the sheet
of birth keeps
cameras alive

3/17/09

Mouth Of God

all this morning at the food
giveaway waiting for a box
with mexicans and other poor
whites at least double the
people as last month some
filthy others reeking of booze
yet still a few who don't look
like they'd need a handout at
all in this once greatest country
but myself I've been coming
here for years and they always
ask me hey how are you doing
how's it going and I nod and
say just great pretty good
why the fuck you think
I'm here asshole is what I
should tell them but I just hand
over my number and practice
the obligatory god bless you
too once again in my head

3/15/09





ON ROT

The
most
common
thing artists
are willing to
barter for is
dental work.




3/11/09

Finger Banging The Pinata

skid plates shower
sparks into the
night when dipped
to drag over the
pavement of a
failed civilization

3/9/09

Caregiver

I am a man who loves ancient bars that smell of
piss and green beer and mostly my favorite time
is early afternoon when all the old fucks come out
to play telling their stories of lost life in a world of
the yes yes yes yes before the ironic no no sorry
but you know back in 1980 in NYC I used to drink
in the Terminal Bar right there across from the Port
Authority and Murry this white haired bartender told
me "you're too young to give a shit about anybody"
like I was applying to be his caregiver or something
well that asshole should pour me a drink now

3/8/09

HEIRLOOM

the prayers of a beggar
shouldn't even count if
you're lost in the bottle
inside room 13 of the
Doggerel Motel with a
leaking gel pen and a
blow-up doll named Hajji
hissing your drunken
breath out the slash mark
from your dead father's
old Imperial he would use
to pick those yellow teeth

3/5/09

Blessed Be

I saw once on TV where
two poodles got married
in their little wedding
costumes and all these
blue-haired old ladies
just pissed themselves
because it was so cute
yet of course now if some
gay people want to get
married oh holy shit no
that is unheard of but I
say marry whomever you
want and blessed be if
they know how to fuck the
living enmity out of you
because there ain't much
else left that institution is
good for if dogs can do it