There is a ghost heart living under my trailer. It sings all day and night, breathy confessionals and foolish love letters. “Don’t you know any jokes?!” I holler from my arm chair, drinking cold beer.
The TV is on, showing humans fist fucking ancient gigantic fish. I’ve got it muted as I listen to Mozarts, Don Giavanni opera. I skip ahead to the Commendatore movement. All while the balding hillbillies float in the muddy river, ala the shittiest baptism ever. Their wives line the shore like a greek chorus in floral onepiece swimsuits shouting encouragement or God knows what. Don Giovanni is drug to hell while the fat hillbilly with an exquisite mustache hoists a immense catfish from the black waters.
And all is silent except the ghost heart, singing on and on about, “hot trembling moments” and “the night he left…”
