My America is slipping from my heresy.
It has no bluejay and blunders 'tween the hook in the sky
and the rod in my hand
jiggling for dumb stars
that have it all
but the fish
I don't believe in.

I have silver bullets for a beast in me
but can;t seem to love something'
while I'm suspended
in moonshine.
like mud punching
through a solid heart
and what means more
cannot be a curse
in my palm.

Only forever has a price
that consumes the merchant
and only the famished
feast upon the dust
of a soft
regret.