"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. __________________________________
Amid several of the thicker streaks, four gray whales could be seen swimming in the oil.
you should try and get here in your smudged newspaper makeup with amyl nitrate eyes your dark skinned myths dropping into midway dirt along with your bikini panties if you can read the hobo signs in those Simon Rodia stilettos you got hanging out the boxcar door while every town that passes by plays God's little recorded voice sounding something like that funhouse laugh only the Outsiders will still remember
I'd soak my harps in a glass of tears but those 13 Hohners and Lee Oskars in that sweet black case are in hock in Klamath Falls, OR and have been for the last two and a half years $18 every other month like giving blood because I can't get them out I'm constantly broke and my soul partner Greg Hall sent them to me just one more of his beautiful gifts and he's dead as shit so I can't just let them go but I sure as fuck can't play them now either it's unconditional love and very doubtful that someday I will ever survive on words
should have been her outstretched arms with the Christmas lights still on outside in the trailer park where it's 87 degrees at midnight when a faraway radio stuffed full of enough real poets could have told you there never would have been a last call in those pretty blue long gone Trailways eyes
pulling the top rubbery layer of your life off out the emulsion tray your existence now on the backside of your dreams seems pretty complacent compared to sex and death or your need to get drunk and scream through the streets at night when religion works the best with everyone afraid to dance in forged flesh under the hunter's moon only to say goodbye again
Senor Blues lights his shoes afire during the last flight to nowhere on lonesome Planet X'd in that Nike commercial for the big game no one will ever see if the blessed omnipresent Sky Marshal has his way or your nurse doesn't change the channel
another thing I remember is way back then the now present Poet Laureate of Santa Cruz had asked me to house sit his pad there in Bonny Doon right down on the river not far from that great bar The Lost Weekend and I thought why the fuck not and I fed off his snob pity because at the time I was living in my car avoiding the pigs on Capitola Rd. not able to write any damn poems so I went to meet the dude and got the keys and he showed me how to feed the dogs the cats where to put the shit out in the compost pile where his typewriter was and I kept nodding my head fuck yeah man and then he got to the part about oh and don't bother trying to find my dope or my booze I hid all that shit pretty good you'll never find it and I said fuck no man no I just want to write so after he left it took me about one day to find his tequila his beer his bourbon his wine his weed his pretty righteous hash and it was a glorious week consuming every fucking thing he had stashed away listening continually to that one sweet Rodney Crowell song 'Til I GainControl Again on his system but all good things do soon end so hours before the time on the date designated he'd get home I neatly stacked up all the empty liquor bottles on the table left all the roaches and his hash pipe in the ashtray and took my leave to go back living in a car without even writing one single shitting word
so the morning of Oct. 21 after twenty-six blood transfusions Jean Louis Kerouac died in St. Anthony's Hospital of hemorrhaging esophageal varices a classic drunkard's death on fucking Dizzy Gillespie's birthday and ain't that America
the missing, new, was found, the killer scribed her actions to the edge of nearby others in the trade "I knew that man with light selves in the living Victim of the car Ever since I met Maria de Lourdes the corpse is is terrible." Then, loquialism which, an rival, to this writer from of some of the men of the indirect quo via to cope with the (The latter phrase said, "I fell for him this was my true Maria, be strong enough brutal giggle. They had called sited the missing blooded murder persons at the stalled aluminum police files, but no loosely translated, over two years ago, killed," he said