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.
__________________________________




2/26/09

MEDULLA DEW POINT

still plastic surgery for
dogs is on the rise
in the U.S. and
Europe

2/25/09

All The Sinners Saints

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

2/24/09

KIND OF BLUE 50TH ANNIV PHYSIOGNOMY




Rainstorm streaks.

Hyperspace zoomblur.

Green glass face America.

2/22/09

Prequel To A Wasted Life

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

2/21/09





ggggggggggggggg
REWORD THE LAST SENTENCE





2/18/09

If The Chimpanzee

ever tramples
gemstones on
a skid road in
your heart just
remember
Shakespeare
liked those blue-
veined titties as
big as an atlas
filled with
places you still
need to go

2/15/09




FASHIONISTA




skull for window,

skin suit, shiny

black highway



La Troca

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

2/14/09





DANCE LIKE YOU FUCK

everybody fucks
but dance like
you fuck
for me




2/12/09

Sputum Beach

for Billy

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

2/11/09

THE READING OR THE ALIBI

modicum of literary renown

"you are going to have
to leave now"

2/5/09

Love Interest

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

2/4/09

A Poet Is Born

for Kevin Opstedal

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