with lady macbeth something like a salty spit stays in your mouth regardless of swallows: some uranium half-lifed out of bloody comprehension. something sub rosa, a clue or maybe a potent source of fuel too thick for burning. and that’s the problem always unburdening itself heavily on our ears, no one believes a glaring lesion that won’t go away. and in ad hoc night, you hail a cab in the street without a trace of sanity, without an end to the sax’s solo, without one pathetic pill to at least make the echoes softer. and now, unable to understand anything old or hear anything new, still listening for music in the sidewalk rain, you are a hair’s breadth away from a simple tragedy.