Two Coastal Poems

1.
Went down deh shop dur a minute ago
Pick up me shop lunch
Bag uh Cheeto’s and me Big 8 Lime
T’ree tins uh sardines in spring water
And d’em Vienna weenies I loves
Chats up brud wit’ he’s gut hangin’
Low as he’s porch
Havin’ he’s first puff uh deh mornin’
Tells me nattuh go wakin’ no one up
An’ I says
“Sure everyone be’s up,
D’ey just ain’t come outta deh house outta it,
Hey b’y,”
And he laughs tuh kill he’self
T’rough he’s Labatt Blue breakfast
Asks where I’m from
Where I’m going to
Tells ‘em “Fredericton…”
Pauses like I got picked outta me grade four class
On who deh last Beothuk wus
After nah doin’ me readin’s,
An’ I looks up at he’s red eyes and says,
“Goin’ tuh Hermitage, Lard willin’”
Mentions d’at d’ere ferry d’at leaves Tuesday at seven
And deh feller goes right quiet sure
Like I made a racist joke er somet’in’
Looks at he’s woman er daughter er whatever missus is
Like I pronounced Topsail Road “Top-sail Road”
Nah “Top-sul” like yuh would
Right ignorant, hey b’y
Lookin’ fur jamborees d’at ain’t on deh go
And comers home d’at still be’s out west, y’knows
And USB cables where deh ports
Don’t be fur USB’s a’tall
And maybe deh scatter mummer d’at visits tents
Nah houses
And uh speed boat right perfect
Fur four hours uh choppy stuff
No problem a’tall, mah son
But I t’inks—
And d’is is ‘tween you and meself now—
I t’inks brud don’t know nudding
But I ain’t bodderin’ wit’ d’at racket
‘Cause arguin’ wit’ a Newfie
Be’s like kickin’ yer mudder’s ol’ vacuum cleaner
Yer getting yer pants dirty
And d’at’s it
Have me nacho cheeters
Now deh once
Uh right cheesy wake up, right on
D’en have me sardine can lunch
Wit’ uh bruised arse pear fur me healt’
If yuh knows what I means
And jus’ toss d’em wieners at deh gulls
Copper deh dog’s gettin’ some old
But he says hello tuh all deh b’ys all deh same
Prob’ly he’s nerves since he’s missus is gone—
I ‘llows he knows d’at pushy cliff cat
Tommy Wiggles
D’at be’s rubbin’ he’s big orange balls
All over deh breakwater
And d’at Copper t’inks d’at ain’t fit, wha
Or maybe he don’t say shit all
Cause he’s dog sitter be’s pushier d’an deh taxman
2.
Today I burnt my face,
My nose most of all,
But Jordan didn’t burn the veggie chili,
Our first and only family meal,
So we ate dysfunctional preservatives
Surviving like the Bronx children
We don’t know,
Like nasty happy mountain sun things
Popping vitamins, all drug-cool or something,
Starting fires as though we were fire starters
With illegitimate logs
And marked up Ketchup Pringles cans
Lily the Buffalo is impressed by our navigation
But not with her frequent bagging—
A meat run with plastic tusks—
Or with her playground abandonment,
Fodder for child molesters
Who overfish their teeth away
And drink brown water heart attacks
I only buy Black Horse in Newfoundland
To spite the Coors Light face
I thought I reflected
Like a lobster adorned mirror,
I only see whales in Newfoundland
Because the Saint John River blows something different,
Griff and Jordan only do their Newfie impressions
In Newfoundland,
Itching from mosquito bite pluralism,
Infected with over boiled salt beef malaria—
So far from civil servants and city hall,
Ultimate Frisbee and the Regent Mall,
I kinda like the aerial skin flock fucks,
And the white lumps that mumble
“Mind now, Stephen b’y”
From one pale toe to another
Putting on cold wet pants
Is so sexual
But the crooked rural responses
I get in them
Feel like call center diversionary tactics
Instead of good ideas about tackle or government initiatives
This is home again
And I didn’t have no clue, mah son,
This is home again
And I’m tired from the softball I played
Twelve years ago,
This is home island
But it isn’t home
Because I’m laughing a little too sincerely,
Thinking completely, concretely,
Soft as crabapple jam,
And not at all,
Morphing like every misty night’s last embers,
Autumnal in my August inhale haunting
There’s a thoughtfully nude moon
Over the diesel lung,
French immersion coughing for its life
Just beyond the incinerator,
And an interracial house of beers toasting
Our twisted diplomat guts
Vagabonds don’t write:
They beach, bleed from their eyes,
Stage torrential bean debates—
“Tomato! Maple syrup! Pork!”—
Taxi in non-taxis,
And talk over peppers and pitcher plants,
Animated by Cabot’s cod headed winds