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.
__________________________________




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