Climax Change

You may know me, watchful one, by my alias Old Man, Buccaneer, Water Strider, Bilious Busted Monometer of Planetary Celsius. No? Go fuck yourself. I’m listening to Delius, “On Hearing the First Cuckoo in Spring,” envious Of ovenbirds, swallows, swifts, clamorous canaries; furious At the soft-bedded shale and its gaseous Nonlethal vapors. I’m not laughing. I’m hilarious. I have a problem,it does,they do, you, him, I, us, All creatures craven and judicious Having departed in kayaks and fuming Kias. Has it not been foretold, Leviticus, lascivious One? — The way you bade us kneel, twisted like a Möbius Belt, before insinuating your noxious Nectar — omnivorous, odoriferous, officious Orifice-filler, you. In a previous Proxy you descended, empty charioteer, to query us About our outerwear’s whereabouts. Think on it, Rufous- Headed woodpecker, use your barbed brain, be suspicious Of high motives as you crown yourself on the dead tree as Who comes to your rescue? Not I. Unconscious Tremors, climbing the coils of the virtuous Time-worn wooden flesh, leave me be. “Witty Is As Witty Does,” sings the sorry fellow atop his eggs. Hush. He’ll sit through anything. As in days of yore, he is Blooming, blazing, withering with his prize zinnias.