"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. __________________________________
so after the reading she came up in those caramel eyes and blah to the blah I gave out another free book that if she kept for 30 years she might be able to sell to augment the cost of her three mandatory minutes on The Department of Human Resources' suicide machine but anyway later at the bar she had claimed she was on Monsters Of Cock and let's party baby so yeah yes of course fuck yeah yes another drink please and that was scary shit but I quess if you're a woman you might as well get totally reamed out and stretched apart because it is a specific need but I just like to run the shallows first then nudge there up against that hilt gyrating my fat drunken ass a little bit enjoying myself because I'll never get to be on any Subatomic Elven Cunt I just put out stupid little booklets of poetry hoping to get lucky now and then
long long road of darkness got no end 6 plays for 25 cents whiskey and whites living out a suitcase general delivery City of the Dead Angels 3 fingers measured across her notch in tight jeans mister can I sit on your hog living in a lie under an asphalt sun because the ticket never really exploded it just burnt our hands
living out here in the country I'm somewhat forced to listen to a lot of the crap on NPR that comes out of Ashland and this evening I had to laugh because Laurie Anderson was on with her signature insipid shit and once again it reminded me of one time visiting John Giorno in early 1980 NYC when a couple nights before that I got to see her perform somewhere I can't remember but I was telling Giorno that all of that amazing technical stuff she used was totally wasted because she had absolutely nothing to say and I knew she was his girl he put her on one of his records and all that but he fucking agreed with me and said he told her the exact same thing and that was very cool so anyway tonite I changed it to some Mexican channel before she could finish and I opened another cold beer right as those Tejano accordians took me hacia abajo
nothing to be done here I regret it all now living like a fool because of words you should see my shoes split open at the top I couldn't become a janitor again not in these I couldn't be a janitor again in any shoes and you got to be able to run to shoplift in three years of dicking around on this blog I sold ONE fucking book off it and I'm shit tired of explaining what that means to me figure it out the rest of you cocksuckers I am pinning you right through this white screen like a sniper when you're stuck in traffic turn your head look sunflowers
all of my life I've been a flea market/swap meet fucking SOB and it's been like being in a brotherhood not too many secrets are disclosed just like with the carnies but it's all a dying art now upping the price depending on the customer's mood and you're riffing because all of the shit came out of a goodwill box or someone's sidewalk trash can just like when I was 9-years-old selling with my grandpa in this big open field with all the others teaching me you can't regift the grifter
now this is one thing I did consider back in the halcyon day of mailing your poetry submissions around to the different mags was taking that SASE you sent along with your shit and putting poison or LSD on the flap a fucker would have to lick then close to seal it along with your rejection slip but I didn't go that far I just wiped it up and down my filthy ass crack or dragged my encrusted dick across it and that was it so only I knew what Small Press editor should get a taste of Nettelbeck and which one would actually end up fucking liking it
if you can't go on you can't go on that I'll go on bullshit is only to impress bartenders and social workers maybe the occasional skank at an open mic but my honkie dig that big picture if you're tearing off your shirt pockets to wipe your ass in an alley in the rain you'll sure as shit get some fuckhole to publish your first chapbook of poems so at least then for awhile you'd have toliet paper
years ago I took my Paiute girlfriend and her kids to the pow wow over there at the Stronghold where Captain Jack pissed all over what back then was an even more uptight white America with their grace and Christian revulsion ending in the Modoc War and the parading of his severed head around the country in a jar of formaldehyde but at least the badass motherfucker had popped a cap into the skull of a U.S. General and that's the kind of shit that I can get into so anyway me and the old lady were pretty hungover and she was dealing with the kids and I was sitting on a stump four rows back into the crowd staring at the ground and they had called an Owl Dance and the next thing I know I'm staring at a pair of beaded moccasins and I look up at this beautiful Indian girl about 13-years-old in a buckskin dress who just chose me to dance with her and she's motioning to me to let's go and I was too fucking sick and I told her baby girl I can't I can't and she was adamant but I couldn't do it no way and that's a major insult so she started crying and ran off into her mother's arms way across the field and that might be one of the only times I ever felt shitty about being a drunk but it's funny I still kept on drinking