The Niggard Heralds

The inverted bodies hang themselves,
   Interpenetrated, peeled
For us to write riven songs upon their skins!

Sullied sufferers hang themselves from a glass cross
   200 floors toward heaven.
   Bitter Christs!
Loudly you fly from flames to the asphalt,
Absent-minded of your mission:
Your religion has not yet arisen.

We may yet decide to be extinguished.
The gossipy mendacity of the Left
   Aligning with bin Ladens
   To win the miniaturized
Bickerfest with the neighbor;  neighbor
Same as them, hung from the cross the same.

   Orange flares
Line the flyway to infinity
       Or incineration.

Coda
Here's a brave man, indifferent to kicks,
Somber under DC's browning ferns,
Ready to kill the willful killers
And treat his countrymen, confused
        As the winter-wind infused weathervane
Like a drunken beloved.