"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. __________________________________
these dirty asshole songs for the starving about what a great country this used to be on the stinking seats of chairs where the hemorrhoidal will tell all about family and canned laughter as long as it's somebody else who goes to bed hungry
nodding out in Hussong's with your fat dealer's wallet while out on the Avenida some assholes from the San Gabriel Valley are ripping your vintage Velzy-Jacobs board from out of that glinting unlocked rig as the blonde bitch baring her tight midriff slaps you across your puckered lips and calls you a fucking queer during her own personal endless summer throwing yet a few more of those dead dogs way down after you
family photos hang in an emergency room where blue veins got tangled in red tape behind bullet proof glass that could also reflect your skull with two eyes glowing set stationary in the rear window of a primered '64 Chevelle pulling out from the parking lot onto Redemption Ave. in soft rain
I live the kind of life that most men only piss on a last chance for last poets after the fucking "...looks like a Volkswagen engine." -Mel Clay so when we get caught in our T cells with an iPod and the letters of Paul Bowles to Mr. Rogers on Kindle the most incredible next thing any of us shits will be reading is I told you so
tomorrow is my birthday and it's like the end of Godfather 2 where Michael is sitting on the bench looking like hammered shit and the leaves are blowing and most everyone is dead and all that guilt coagulates and it's so fucking lonely with not one question asked like who could have an answer anyway other than yes I am afraid
in my mind we're leaving California $28.07 with a Raven .25 auto and a half eaten bag of Baken-ets and you're too stoned to give me head "the truckers will see" shit they're fucking high too baby so I sip on my 24 oz. Modelo especial while you jam a matchbook under a Stevie Ray cassette and I roll all over the bed and signal to pass in yet another bad dream with both of us pitched down a grapevine hill where those who are lost mustn't ever wake up
they turned back the clock on The Day of the Dead with a hangover like speechless inoculation using Ativan as chalk to scrape initials on St. Mark's Place all the way back to the San Bernardino Freeway for everyone who feeds