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.
__________________________________




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.