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The extent of my sweetness: a hard green rectangle flavored fake apple – a Christmas left-over found under dirty white couch cushions, disturbed by all the intentness previously lost, burned in that I don't give a shit smoke. Baby prattles with their “la la me me” indistinguishable from any other, but through a unique timbre, their specific need, even wrapped in concert with others of the same ilk, “la la me me”, we, and they, not us; la la, ha ha; I have watched bees zoom around each other while having nothing to say, except “buzz, buzz” as bees do, forgetting the yard while flying in their tight circles – the stamens dripping in colors for their legs, the pesticide cloud, or the microwave chatter beamed through a hundred eyes, and they go on, on like thin magnets – the la la, ha ha, buzz of everything but. Thin little dead things on automatic trails mapped already down in a few spins, splat in your own color today if you can survive any actual sight of its true inside. I am too busy gathering my own roadkill back as one body to be eaten of itself – more freely again since the last mad leap.