Wednesday, October 23, 2019

Proper Tales Press 40th anniversary essay: Tom Prime


Stuart Ross’s Appearances

I first met Stuart Ross at Kathryn Mockler’s Purpose Pitch poetry launch alongside Frank Davey’s launch and another Mansfield Press writer’s launch in London, Ontario.

The reading ended.

At the bar down the street, this anonymous writer talked extensively about cannibalism and fascism as related to the origin of the Chiclet chewing gum company and something about rubber tires. She drank vinegar and talked to me but seemed to talk out of obligation. Eventually we stopped talking, and I was happy about this, because the conversation had devolved into the various places we’d travelled and what the weather was predicted to be.

I could finally talk to Stuart.

Stuart had been sitting beside me, and the drinks I drank were being sopped up. Kathryn’s poetry had been like a kick in the teeth. Kathy Acker reborn—an inaccurate estimation of her work; she’s got her own style, and it’s original and great. Frank’s was great. And the other poet had been cool, though I don’t remember her name. She’d written a poem about her boyfriend’s socks. This poem, she explained, was terrible, but it’s the only poem of hers that I remember.

I had a bit of swollen skin on my fingers which I directed Stuart’s attention to. Was a hot oil burn from deep fried shrimp. He was not drunk, but I like to think he found my story entertaining.

The next time I saw him, it was summer. I was in Toronto with my partner, Amelia, and he was meandering down the street. His hair as cloudy as the mind of Leibniz. The kind of man that doesn’t seem possible in the world we live in but then appears as distinguishable as a 50-dollar bill on the sidewalk. Not to compare him to money, but there are people out there that you’re just so glad to see; they’re better than a paycheck. Read the man’s poetry!

He took our photo and etherized.

Amelia and I had him down to do a reading at our friend, Vince’s. This turned out far worse than anyone could have imagined. The snow hit hard. Some people did show up. The wine had a debilitating effect on the host and I, and the night turned carnivalesque. People sneered, were offended. There were some harsh words. A few discussions of ordering pizza. Amelia and I eventually left. I had been gifted a plastic alien, which I was required to assemble and paint.

The day before, Stuart had driven Amelia and I, shakily through slush, to a vegan restaurant, listening to acapella Frank Zappa. Hoping to compel the poetry from our digits, the conversation at dinner involved the band, Suicide, and axe throwing in Romania.

The fabricated eel had tasted like burnt toast, but the rest was good. Specifically, the fake chicken on thick toothpicks. Hoping to write our collaborative masterpiece, we returned home in the most linear way.

I poured myself whiskey. We wrote. My socks smelled like sweat and rotten leaves. The electric heat was an envelope. We were happily creased inside. We were going to write an epic chapbook. The kind of book that’s about windmills and bivalves.

Amelia went to bed. I snuck some more Jameson in my cup, and Stuart sat in Amelia’s 1000$ chair and talked about the merits of Erin Moure. And I agreed.

He published my chapbook a little while later—on Proper Tales Press. Not to say, I’m a success story, but the man is about good intentions. He’s about new artists making work. As is rob mclennan. These are the people poets need in a society that has no interest in poetry.




Tom Prime is in his first year of the PhD program in English at Western University. He has an MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Victoria (Specializing in Poetry). He has a BA at Western University. He has been published in Carousel, Ditch, Fjords Review, The Northern Testicle, The Rusty Toque, and Vallum.

His first chapbook, A Strange Hospital, was published on Proper Tales Press. His latest chapbook, Gravitynipplemilkplanet Anthroposcenesters, was published on above/ground press.

His collaborative collection of poems written with Gary Barwin, A Cemetery for Holes, is available from Gordon Hill Press.

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