About the Poems
by Matthew W. Schmeer
The nursing home smelled of despair. The windows were dirty. I couldn't watch my grandfather die. So I counted dead flies. It sounds callous. It was.
I really did have to pee. His name wasn't Bill, but it sounds better than Eric. We weren't on a highway, but driving through Forest Park, the big city park in St. Louis. I was driving, not Eric. They weren't really black-eyed susans, but some other flower. They might of been irises. Or daisies. I got poison ivy, too. And we set fire to some logs in a ravine and ran from the cops. But I couldn't get that to fit in the poem, so I made some stuff up. Sorry, Oprah.
"Statement From The Field Investigator’s Report"
Two words: anal rugburn.
"Thoughts on a Line . . ."
I almost called this poem "Dweezil Zappa" until I realized Dweezil Zappa might turn it into a song or something. That would be cool. But then, if Dweezil Zappa released a song called "Dweezil Zappa" based on my poem "Dweezil Zappa," people might think he wrote it about himself and they would start thinking he was a bit of a wanker or something. So, to save Dweezil Zappa from losing fans and stuff, I called it something else. I still call this my Dweezil Zappa poem when I read it, though, you know, just to myself. You can call it the Dweezil Zappa poem, too. Just don't tell Dweezil Zappa.
"to my wife"
I honestly don't know what she sees in me.