"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. __________________________________
one of the most abundant and richest of world commodities is cum that more likely than not turns into some poor motherfucker staring at a wall aggravated at having to go out to the department of human services in age-old rain
April of '68 I was 17 working at a Shell station on Florence in Inglewood when King Jr. got killed by the same U.S. government Obama now works for so I quess change does come sing hallelujah but I can remember the bell ringing going to get this guy some gas in that stupid company uniform and out of the car comes this 6' 5" black motherfucker who throws me up against the pumps then punches me screaming it's over for you white fuckers that was your last hope and he gets back in his ride and takes off and I'm holding my bloody nose bewildered because I hadn't yet heard the news and what the fuck was that all about anyway but now I know and believe it or not I still think they should have given the day to Eldridge or Huey
long as I can remember my old man was always sipping on a quart room temperature set on some kitchen table end table coffee table picnic table so when he died of an aneurism at the Hotel Royal in Santa Cruz a couple weeks after that earthquake with the same warm quart of Schlitz in hand he just took a pull from it was cool that the inmatehe was partying with had capped it off half empty before the meat wagon came to give to me later with all of his other shit which I then brought back to Oregon where about nine months after that a partner talked me into opening to drink up as tribute but we almost puked so went back to the 16 oz. bottles of Rainier that weren't much better though at least they were cold
the tiny red and blue capillaries inside my face all blown out from alcohol unfolding up to my eyeballs like a service station roadmap they used to give out as a courtesy to those people who never got lost
they begrudgingly inform me it took awhile but you finally succumbed to the brain tumor
turned your head to a different wall no one else could see and became one of your dolls
motherfucker I loved you so
all these years & I still have that xerox'ed copy of our entwined hands & drivers licenses we made at the Safeway machine on the way to the clinic after coming back from pawning my saxophone for the abortion money
the asshole made me play it for him because he thought it was stolen
I remember squawking out some slow groove & that was it
late 60's there in Venice on the strand at Steve Richmond's bookstore and candle shop I picked up a free copy of Bukowski's broadside The Genius Of The Crowd printed by mimeograph on a legal-size piece of white paper stinking of incense which I had to sell over 20 years later to a book dealer in Berkeley who probably sold it to some cult asshole who would never understand that sunny summer day when it sealed the deal folded up in my faded rear pants pocket