Monday, February 2, 2015

The Monster Hour

The Monster Hour 
By Zach Schomburg

On the Monster Hour, there was this monster that used to
come out and try to kill everybody in the audience. No one
expected it, not even the producers who were told by the
monster he would play a few blues tunes on the piano. The
monster apologized after each show and asked for another
chance. I’m planning on telling a few jokes this time he would say.
But time after time he’d break his word and try to kill everybody.
The producers finally replaced him with a gorilla dressed in people
clothes that came out and played a Wurlitzer, but they never
changed the name of the show. It was always the Monster Hour.
I don’t think anyone understood then what a monster really was.

Kitchen

Kitchen
By Laura Jensen

Flour is exhaustion.
There’s always some
in the bag’s bottom.

Butter is pain
and in the heat
it can only weep.

Salt is tears,
and cheap.

Onions are the same tunes
to their centers,
always singing to me.
It is their faith
that makes me cry—
they think I’ll stop cutting.


Milk is a satisfied whisper.
Oranges
are harmony, one-two,
two-three,
and won’t subdue
their shape to the bowl.
The child won’t subdue
his shape to the shoe.


And the oven
is vast to the toast,
stingy to the turkey.


Broom is the purr
without the cat.
Candles are clever,
clever, clever—
like the cat stretching up
to the handle of the door.

Bones won’t go,
bones won’t turn
into a rib cage,
find the leg bones,
and go.

Sweetie pie, why
go out with the ashes?
Cookie, why?