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Sean Walsh

of

Levittown, PA, US

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best on saturdays

by

Sean Walsh

i like it best on saturdays

with you in my arms & beer on my breath
in the morning,

when the sun is just waking and we are just waking
my eyes all crusted and your make-up smeared

and caked
our bodies soft in places - nerves so sensitive

when neighbors can hear, I love

morning strains in the lungs
when the walls tremble as much

as your chicken arms
when we kiss each other

despite rankness of breath and film on our teeth

despite the smell of last night's activities

i like saturday mornings, when in the right spot

I can move so gently and toy with you
it doesn't matter it we finish too soon

or even not at all
we wash up and clean from sleep

i like it best on saturdays

with the day ahead of me

and the world beside me
to rise up and feel beauty

on me
to lay with my head on a pillow and watch beauty delight me
to kiss beauty
and to speak to beauty
all before the day begins

i could freeze time
and remain a slave to that last moment
chain myself to those mornings
and relive them, revive them
it's always best on saturdays.

Pastoral Ode or How I Stop Caring and Started Writing Poetry

by

Sean Walsh

I
I remember Virginia and a evening in a plaid shirt
with dime-sized eyes and metal prongs through cartilidge
Andy brought munster and gorgonzola
I brought boxed wine and incense
we chanted hare rama, hare krishina until paint fell into eyes and Melaine showed up despite no cab fare
who proceeded willingly against certified American law
to smoke inside with red and brown tapestry hanging amongst the smoke
fire extinguishers leading the three to gods and Vishnus
with sirens and stuck between floors in a elevator gray
melted cheese and habberdashary of fruit drink
half-chinese girl with noticeably blonde streaks
epiphany and burning flames as a shrine to machines is built
holy red! holy nitrogen! holy acid!

i forget that story and remember a pole in a apartment over John's resteraunt
broccoli on a bicycle
as I stumble home with stubble on chin and chest
with cock hard from alcoholic erections and balls tight and blue, navy blue

andy and andy on the farm passing around Captain Morgan's and a blend of something from Asia in a cermanic organ to played with catatonic precision
solo jazz musician on a field with wet feet and sunken eyes and dry hives
nose bleeds and buddha
we chant more and more and more rama more rama krishina rama
eliade's sacred - me and andy and animism
with dreams of sweet girls' snatch and poopy seed fields with haukas and red wine burgundy
wool socks and cow shit
a talking tree with green hair and limber limbs of exuberant dexterity

where is fettacuini alfredo?
Garcia Lorca find a compass for three worshippers of holy endeavors
ritualistic folk music with melaine dancing the jig with Belezeebub as the paper wears thin
talks of Burroughs and deconstructionism
modern day psycho-tower of Babble on a farm in Stafford
young democrats talks of female circumcision
among the fields and chickens
pigs oink at blankets
vegatables grow on trees
andy in yellow tinted glasses playing the role like P.T. Barnum ringleader of rural seances
the mang, the mang, holy mang

talks of evenings without drugs and wine and girls
games made of poets sons of diplomats
all rebelling against the remarkable woodstock father
on the ganges with an ounce of American pride and opium
pseduo-intellectual talks until we wake up and fry eggs like brains and campaign slogans
Melaine sleeps head in dirt
i'm awake paranoid northern blanket
Andy eating bananas off pineapple trees and writing poetry.

White Tile Song

by

Sean Walsh

heart attack - 19__
it's closing
days before the day I left
nights before - nights before I fell

computer screen - lines - parabola
up and down - all around
old age has taken you
under its wings
glass case labeled with love
and everyone sings
"Do, Do, Do, De, Do"

you change your socks brown to black
while I wait in the room
white tile - cold white tile
oxygen - "Do, De, Do"
I got my eyes shut
and I'm falling back
catch me! catch me!
With your hands - with
decrepet fingers - let me land

years before - on knees
with glasses - so thick
I apologize for all the times
I can't remember when I didn't stay
or talk a little longer
cause everyone was singing
"Do, Do, Do, De, Do"

good night. bleep. bleep.

good night. bleep. bleep.
Good-bye. buzzzzzzz----
do, do, do, de, do

Sonnet about a spring picnic

by

Sean Walsh

how you laugh at the funny things I do
when everything is said to perfection
I tickle your pink brain and how I do
with our eyes closed, it's the same reflection
me and you and laughter with hands upon knees
wine in our cups and freedom in our eyes
how we carve our names in the maple trees
a picnic, the sky, the grass, and our thighs
feeding green grapes from one another's palms
clouds like animals playing in the snow
I fall so spellbindingly to your charms
the moment I wish to never let go
you dance around the blanket so careless, one, two
that is just a spring day spent so perfect with you

The Boat

by

Sean Walsh

you untie my rope from the dock
and set me afloat in the world
my wooden body touches the fresh salt water for the first time
you are in control of the wheel
steering me on my course and moving my wooden body about
the waves are gentle but new and innocent
I float on quietly, learning everything about my surrounding world
you take relief in my knowledge and the course that you have set
the wheel is hardly touched as we bounce about the waves

but the waves, through the years
they eventually engendered themselves
into massive heaps of water that pours down upon us relentlessly
the sky darkens because the clouds cover the sun
you frantically spin the wheel in every direction
hoping to bring my mast above the water, bringing this little boat to safety
boh pleading with vessel to give up and sink among the water
but you scream out "We will not be led into temptation!"
and with your words and heart and struggle
the clouds split and the sun shines down
one single beam

my sail is now up
and the wind is guiding me along
the waves are gentle again,
but you are not feeling well for the time has come,
now that I have all the knowledge of the sea
to part with the once virgin ship
you let go of the wheel which you once grasped so tightly,
so many years before
and notice a near-by port and jump off the ship, hesitantly,
I continue floating-
you hope to see me again some day, at some dock, somewhere

but now it's up to me and what you have taught me
to manage the sea and manage the world
and the only thing to guide me is the wind
and the only thing to keep my mast above water is the waves
and someday I'll dock myself, right next to you and I'll tell you
exactly what the world had ahead of me.

June 13, 1998

And we finally talked...

by

Sean Walsh

I caught you. some one else. used to be me.
and we finally talked. love. yes we did.
love. yes one still does. me. maybe. you. maybe.
eyes. eyelashes touching. strange. you tell me not to touch.
neck. I could always get you there.
playing piano chords on backs and fingers between ribs.
it was sweet to hear you talk. and admitt. christmas to me.
that season. we almost came down the chimney into the past.
santa claus almost caught me kissing you. never did. happen.
we were always sweet. light. dark. girl. boy.
but the window is shut. opportunity crushing index and pinky.
things are different. both have grown.
me. a lot. you. maybe more so. we still make mistakes.
close. real close. lovely. well.
we always were...
you understand. thanks for the talk.