Mitch McConnell, prince of dust, took his current form on February 20, 1942, molded of a strange flesh, his mouth open and already seeking.
Mitch McConnell, for whom the ghouls slaver, spent his childhood crushing spiders in paper napkins and stuffing them into his mouth, one after the other, and never was he seen to expel them at all.
Mitch McConnell, who waits in the gravel pit, attended high school in Georgia, where he sat with the cobwebs and giggled, and would not say where all the town’s dogs had gone.
Mitch McConnell, possessor of a human smile, frequently took it out of its jar to woo his wives. They would admire it, play with it, but only Sherrill asked where it had come from. Elaine does not care.
Mitch McConnell, lord of misrule, moved to Kentucky in a single night. Those houses he passed sickened, and lie even now, windowless, in gardens of ash.
Mitch McConnell, whose handshake is like grasping an ankle, ran for the senate in 1984. He performs no real function there. He only sits in his office and smells the women walking by, even up to three miles away.
Mitch McConnell, weaver of cartilage, has three children. Nothing is known of them. He has three children. He has three children, all his own. He has three children. You mustn’t touch them, those three children.
Mitch McConnell, beloved of frogs, is always facing you. The longer he watches you the more sweat you see on his face. But he says nothing. There is a pulse in his chin. And still he says nothing.
Mitch McConnell, priest of the unshriven, gnaws upon cotton during votes, which he tallies with rows of dead flies. His colleagues know to leave immediately after voting, or, grinning, he will force them to eat their tally mark.
Mitch McConnell, the dampness between the toes, knows intimately the taste of stone. When in his confusion he takes hold of your shoulder and feels your bones, he only wants to know that taste again. When his fingers touch your ribs and his jaw stretches open—
Mitch McConnell, whose inward parts are wet cardboard, does not understand the sun. He sees it from his window each day and vows anew to destroy it. His children assure him he can, and then he smiles and kisses their tough, soft faces like old earlobes.
Mitch McConnell, licker of shrouds, believes in God. He feels he must, for people cry out to Them so often in his presence that it is best to assume God is there somewhere. And it is also best to stop that crying, but then he must in turn stop the struggling, but then
Mitch McConnell, whose true name is a worn tooth, tells his cartilaginous children that corporations are people. And his children agree, and he smiles and kisses their foreheads, where after all these years the slime of their creation is still wet.
Mitch McConnell, drinker of vipers, is not a scientist. He distrusts them, in fact. They know too much. They might know about HIM. So he chews on some red ragged thing and makes a plan he will forget by daylight.
Mitch McConnell, whose tongue is far too sleek, has a gun. He kisses it every noon and calls it by Elaine’s name. His children smile and kiss it as well, with their lips like tendons. Mitch wants everyone to have an Elaine to love.
Mitch McConnell, whose breath smells of hawthorn, loves his children. One day he will love them so much they will crawl back into his mouth & nestle there. And then so will we, smiling & free from sin. He loves us. He forgives us. One day we’ll understand. He looks forward to it.
