Poem by Jim Culleny

—Lew Welch

Down to the Bone

If I could un-ring certain bells and un-wind time I
would, but can’t, so instead, I’ll just ride this bucket
of bones till the wheels fly off; till ball-joints grind
and drop from sockets; till this xylophone of ribs
riffs the music of the spheres, until my funny bone
tells it’s last joke; till my shoulder blades cleave the
universe in two and find the nut within; until I’m
hipper than both hips and happier; till I’m savvy at
last, slicker than elbow grease, and mute as a smart
metatarsal; until I’m wiser than a thought-stuffed
skull: until I knee-cap my inner sonofabitch to stop
his useless jawin’ so I can hear one clear day
resound off tiny anvils and ride the lyrical looped
song of a backyard bird round Lew Welch’s ring of
bone   —Instead I’ll just splint what needs splinting
right here at home.

Jim Culleny; 5/19/05