Could the concentrated undulate of air around a hummingbird’s wing
replace the force of air required in a woodwind—say, a clarinet? Or does
any instrument of the kind belie a lung unhinged? Maybe we’re asking the
wrong questions. Maybe the question is always else, other: like, am I more
liable to inflate a clarinet with air or consciousness, idle wind or the precise
measure of thought? In both of the given situations, there remains a vital
need for holes (for jazz, et cetera . . . ) to exist. To cough into the acoustics.
I’m grasping at straws here. Aerated, we all are rough organs, ordering
storms of eunuch-toothed clouds to gnash lit fangs. This is how a word
tastes like awe when on the reed, the precipice, the semblance. How a
weather-vane gets twisted into a treble clef.
Originally from Seattle, Washington, Jake Syersak is a current MFA candidate at Florida Atlantic University. His work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Gone Lawn, Word Riot, and Kill Author.