Stacy Doris (1962-2012)

Reading "Love What You've Burned, Burn What You've Loved" at SUNY-Buffalo, October 30, 2001 (PennSound)

 


from Kildare

Bushwhack Sign Up Here

LETS UNCLE Input, capture, display
mix and produce
that's what friends are for.


A worry-free professional, finger tips -- easy in
overnight receipt.


TiK, attacker turned iffy
invites/ one hope to outwit
El Commandeer ('Dong').
Helpful explosive surprises clue TiK
(gritty back view)
CLOSER.


On loose in the COCONET
One little guy shaves off time
for the brawny.

A hug/smash combo

Midair teleport
fakes out of nothing
icky reptile device.
TiK-as-Valkyrie
pie-throw endeavors
jumps, lands senseless
(indigestion attached).

The flowers squirting contest.

from Conference, Part III, The Sheet-metal Tar

     The sky is a ball. Also, the sky is pure excitement or incitement. It is what a dress is; flesh and its opposite. And the dress is good. When the dress is red. When ready. It is all that breathing is, including unanimous. Idealists see unanimous as continuous, and deity is invented thus.

     I miss her.

     The sky lives on water, meanwhile, on seas and lagoons and puddles. Swans nip at it for sustenance.

     Poverty was their way of seeing wealth, so they believed and went with God. They were pirates, these idealists. They ply and walk away. They carry their odors and allures. But do we do so together or alone? Am I with her, in the air?

     If my friend were here with me, we'd use this for music:  antennae, grills of the House of Sens gables, fire escapes--we'd use them for strings. Is she?

     I am always in bed. I have a friend on the rue de Paradis who calls and asks if I'm in bed. I think she calls just to ask and the answer is always yes.

     Daily life is where the broken jar either gains or loses its purpose. I'm not the one to ask.

from Paramour

Never Sticky.

The best of all possible words's a luscious mouth

(the rest is dross).

The word-image of a luscious mouth cannot feather or stain

nor pass unnoticed.

The unforgotten mouth, plus high-color fidelity and stamina

break dramatically through

and on soft micro-layers glide.

That saw comfort.  In any light, depend.

And along with the dazzling truth is

you'll want more than one.

They tear into the wood, pass into the high reeds of underbrush.

Trees hide them, they disappear behind a curtain of leaves.

Thus sty in This chest, hairs pool, voice melt This rouse Thus, the drift, infinite burn, This gnaws This, course in blood, slop over, wind, Thus hand swoon to hoof between, behind,      the edge open and Thus This rip, root, a-rage, This Thus plunders center of plunder, ring. This wrench to shreds, convulse gnaw, Thus grunt.

---

"When I think of Stacy, I think of water and of her way with it, how completely at home she was in its suspension and its depth. That quality of "at-homeness" seems emblematic of her entire relationship to the world—she was utterly comfortable with the suspensions it demands and with its uncanny depths. She had the rare ability to remain metaphorically at sea, comfortable there in that wide-open uncertainty. She had what Keats called negative capability, and she had it in abundance—she made uncertainty and doubt occasions for invention and exploration."

—Cole Swenson (from An Homage to Stacy Doris 1962-2012 edited by Laynie Browne)