Bluesky

There is always music to be written.After all, life is the sweat of Twinkie Clark,the product of music, the skilled controlof your organ despite the kinesis of memory.Like an X-ray, an audience will always focuson the white center. The barrier betweena bee and its honey stomach.Somewhere between allergy, elegy.Somewhere between cascade, casket,yet I live, the middle ground of gospeland gossip, wiping off sweat, smearing a kiss.My mother pronounces killed and kiltthe same way between wiping off sweatand smearing a kiss. You can be putin the ground for what comes outyour mouth. Today I searched under the pewsof my life for loose change. Tell me, congregation,did you give with the fullnessor the foolness of your heart?