The Cougar Review

By Ictalurus

Antacids taste like a better ice cream cake, although they’re allegedly unflavored. Having nothing better to think, I wonder how the strange forces of existence reach me. What do I know about poetry, besides school acquaintances mocking an ode to love in ‘Nebraska, Nebraska, Nebraska’? What do I know about rhythm besides that my impressions of Jimmy Stewart in the bedroom closet comes out sounding like the something of the something? What do I know about speech besides that my being serious turns into the crying of dunces? My recitals of books I haven’t read and movies never made are my friendly neighbors, and I’m sitting bored across from them. I want some matter in my empty cup, but where do I get the spoon? Do I get something by acting like I don’t want it? Did I do my saline allergy spray? Haven’t they seen a tourist before? This movie would have been released if the opening was finished. There were multiple Quixotes, tilting at the director’s obsessions. Why should I care? Should I go on the road and find Miss Wyoming? Can I stand on one leg and leave? Are forks better when it’s crumbling to pieces? I feel sick. Am I melting into myself? What do I know about eating besides that it’ll taste sour eventually? Do I take two more and stave off reflux? What’s silly about someone trying for emphasis? Do I ask for explanations? Well, ‘nobody’s no-body’s body’s per-per-perfect-ct.’