"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. __________________________________
dissect the whisper and it could be all of your dreams come true with one last quarter in hand to see an emaciated coyote trick you into humanity there behind grey black chicken wire holding back a beer piss because 5 minutes later when you do whip it out to relieve yourself behind the weathered plywood HERE IT IS sign it'll smell like last night's dank pussy and you'll have to pretend you still have such a long ways to go
birth is being torn by the roots from a cloud of squid then thrown into a stainless steel bowl of cherries where inadequate conversations sound too much like the sexually transmitted literature of common men who never quite realize there will be no services for the next 75 years give or take a few bad miles through the churchgoer hospital corridors all because a real poet left the owner's manual out in the rain
suicide may be painless if you're cleaning that hunting rifle a little too close to your head but that's the pussy way draw all the pain out first from those who were fucked over heart limb and soul their only piece of ground a shoulder on the littered lost highway where biological children can't even piss without getting a citation torn out of pages from the book that whoever touches shall never lie