"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. __________________________________
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
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
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
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
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
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
just the facts mang because there is no Book of theHalf Deadso 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