This Friend of Mine

His brain is tuned a little too high
And sensitive;
The chroma-chords that twangle there
Can be jarring and jitter-shot.
He's a colorful bird of fickle plumage,
First a peacock, then a grouse,
That flitters through hazards haphazardly,
Losing a feather now and again
While gliding at dignified altitudes.
His raucous macaw caws awaken the dead;
They glance at him, and, stupefied,
Resume their stony slumbers.
A workaholic to the bone:
When unengaged or unamused,
He's restive, doesn't know what to do.
A procrastinator throughout the day,
Come after-dark he'll settle down
And tend to matters exigent
Whose deadlines ride in with the dawn.
Reliably distracting, consistently confounding,
He was the jester for a court
In olden times, a prior life,
Before his king beheaded him.