Michael Aird

Three Poems

Paper Planes Remix

Obviously she is not inactive…
               —André Gide

out of the severe clear freedom and birds:
some are let go in prime time, others
succumb to excitement—it was
suicide not to
open the aviary on new forms—
you breathe in and sigh culture samples
exposed to her beating against
room temperature—this is the best
of the twelve labors: tracing her cold-blooded
Bézier curves through unknown channels,
remotely infected—in fact
sponsorship can happen anywhere, up to
and including soft targets—you just
migrated with the nervous applause

Seam Allowance

For normally men fall toward a wound…

fluently open architecture
of the thigh lisped the whole book—
a girder unto love plucked
in progress through hundreds of stories
and sticky substance (Prynne): I struggle
with cautery
in easy installments,
but pollinate for free as recent as
the last page, visibly contracted—
wriggling on this pin to a remote
tendon or microtrauma—the moan
is all we mean by an edit—
for your plesaunce, every protein expression
is concrete around that reading—
it was in syndrome
to squat on the site forever


we’re all cargo
in an anthem pinch: it’s a matter of pace,
sending shivers down my spine—
these days our fahrt is so well laid
it has the youth entrenched: any wonder
they want to be caught? correction:
chromatic—I’ve been hit with a few
but don’t walk with a limp
—or maybe
walking itself is accidental,
a recovery not to write home as if
pretext (a killing the time death)—meanwhile
the living room is colored urgent and
sing-song, punishable by a protracted
brotherhood: whatever is said
to pollute here stays here, more expressive
by far than marching on the spot

return to SHAMPOO 37