December 20-26, 1999: Roy Frisvold and Hannah J. Sassaman

week of december 20-26 1999

Roy Frisvold and Hannah J Sassaman

Roy Frisvold

Bio (auto)

Roy Frisvold was born in Berkeley, California, and lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico His poetry chap-books are “Squirms in Radiance” and “Wyvern.

The following work is Copyright © 1999, and owned by Roy Frisvold and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Touring the Cave of Premonition

A string quartet rides
the waters of a cave Soft rowing, bringing
torchlit music, cools this
cheesy subterranean moment Bleachers,
erected in a breach
in stalagmites,
bulb with outlawed flashes Photos catch silence
not here among ooos and ahhs
in absurd sharp The–spelunkisphere?–warps
even Rossini:
a fitting tuneup for my own ride
in my own skeletal punt
across whatever last
floats me.


What light was not siphoned
for riotous dangling
by nasturtiums came in,
splashed in the bathroom sink Her neck, splashed with semen,
sank sleepily Barking
woke the wind Windchimes clanked Sensation imagined
used bars of soap: opaque,
flint, detumesced Crept back
to a new temple-ache;
silk scarf to each bedpost;
Muse; light snore.

Audio recording
WCA19US8W4 4 anon
may be Hurly or Tock;
the quality is that
of a flu patient’s
shouting at the wind:

“The process delegates
the practical to each
at its musical shell “

I doubt this rises to prose
Hurly was infamously fond
of martinis drunk from a rubber
glass of Tock’s design Tock would mimic
Hurly’s reading Tock (Perhaps
the quantity of mercy
was strained from rubber shakers )
Both men died, in the nineteen-
seventies, of swine flu or
shooting up the wind.

Hannah J Sassaman


Hannah Sassaman is a junior at the University of Pennsylvania,  studying Theatre Arts She works at the Kelly Writers House and is a poetry editor at CrossConnect She will be studying next semester at the London Academy of Theatre Hannah will be spending the millenium in New York City with a boy

The following work is Copyright © 1999, and owned by Hannah J Sassaman and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

My Heart Rests on the Muscles of His Tongue

He laughed, and peeled the sides of his Pop-Tart
into brown seams Currency filled the room:
toilet paper, orange juice Plastic crates
filled with next week’s copies of magazines In the morning we boarded the windows,
smeared the doorposts, anticipated scourge He still wondered if I could be trusted,
eyed my calves for contractions For moments,
throughout the night, I wanted to run away,
to place my lips on the Liberty Bell
with the rest of the throng, accept the year,
the turning, the swallow of cold breath: but,
his head over-anointed with two thousand,
perhaps: my messiah might be greasy.

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