"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. __________________________________
a good friend goes into surgery this morning to have a chunk of his tongue cut out and some glands removed from his jaw because of cancer from all the years of smoking and drinking and that kind of thing always gets you to thinking of the time you yourself have left during this big stress test called life where in the end all the partying won't mean shit to a tree if no one is glad to see you go
I'm in that movie Festival Express shot up there in Canada the summer of '70 when I was 19-years-old you can spot me during the Calgary segment when Pigpen is jamming and I'm standing there rocking out skinny as shit in my antique glasses denim shirt and little bebop hippie hat with a scraggly beard as if in some queasy time machine drinking vodka with Janis those huge nightly bonfires we had with all the cowboys in town for the Stampede passing the reefer across the naked eyes of some young pretty girl face with the core of my poem in hand like the Ray-O-Vac I shone up into the Northern Lights to get a glimpse of how I must look now
a week ago at this reading I did in Saint Cross with Opstedal the last living poet in town this grey head/bearded old dude came up reminiscing about being at a reading I did there circa 1979 in the Victorian house I lived in for a year while working on the Bug Death MS on that very day they began demolition of the joint and all the local heavys were there to read with me I quess because I billed the whole thing as Nettelbeck's Final Reading and they were glad to see me go because I used the proceeds from the admission to finance my move to Oregon in my cherry 1950 Chevy 5-window pickup where I went out into the woods and drank beer and shot off guns until I got it all out of my system but that's that sad story anyway this guy was very sweet talking about those old days and how glad he was to see me that it was good we were still alive and didn't I miss this and that and so and so and have I seen Kessler lately and I said well he's standing right there and that got rid of him but it got me thinking about how much I missed that fucking truck until an old-time Beatty homeboy showed up with some whiskey and turned out all the lights
we walked down to the water in Santa Cruz where the cigarette butts come up to nudge the shards of mother-of-pearl and empty Gatorade bottles with all the velocity of a transdermal Mexican show tune and the fuck if she wasn't still impressed although it was her very first time at 36 seeing the ocean but I was jaded of course to be back in the place where radio waves refuse to carry a drunken voice yet the street people continued to carry around my father's face alongside one of those WILL WORK FOR pieces of cardboard so I held her beer anyway when she got down to play in the wet sand while breakers broke like the heart of an ugly valentine on this one lost weekend in the rain
driving down to the scrimmage to become your slave would you if you didn't work and drank all day tell me you are the real nigger pissed off trading places with anyone on that rotisserie of faces when another bone discovered at the job site means the whole day off
you second cousin to midnight on a have-not road that's riddled with more painful holes than a blues harmonica or the window of time pelted with gale force tear drops in that house of cards where the empty hammock swings for no one