A can of bull

 A first draft, a fist daft, a fur doffed, and a forest adrift

Can nibble

I ate God.  He was delicious.  Now, God is in me.   I am what I eat, they say.  So I guess now it’s my turn to get eaten.  God is a chain of nutriment.  The food chain of love.  sunlight, water, minerals from the earth, a tiny seed, grows into a plant, which in turn is eaten by an animal, who in turn is eaten by us.   There could be more links, of course.  A highly refined diet can have as many links as a chain link fence.  Anything that’s edible is a part of God.  

God is good.  And food is good.  So God is food.  Sex is good.  God is that, too.  That’s about it, really.   Money.  Money, sex, food, and drugs.   The government doesn’t keep food all to itself.   It’s the FDA, the food AND drug administration.  So God administers drugs.  God’s drug is of course Highest.   Glory to God in the Highest.  Heroin for heroines.   Crack for crooks.  Pot for his pets.  LSD for the latter day saints.  And Acid for Sid’s sorry ass.  Anyway, if you ingest, God ain’t in jest.   Food makes it real.  Keep it real, dawg.  All dogs go to heaven.  And 7-11 sells food, drink, drugs, sex, and money.   There’s a candy bar worth a hundred grand.  There’s an ice cream called it’s it.   You’ll be screaming for more.  And chocolate for the chalk of the late.  Death by chocolate.  So you can go meet your maker, and go to God.  Death is the end of suffering, so it must be good.  The grim reaper is good, virtuous, holy, blessed, sacred, loving, kind, compassionate, and merciful.  You will get your reward for faithfulness and obedience.  You will taste delectable, delightful, and delicious.  You will be scrumptious and hit the spot.   You will be tasty and enticing and maybe even on toast.  Don’t test me.  I eat cannibals.

A tin of beef is a can of bull.  A can of bill can be quite rich.  The memory of some foods doesn’t fade.   So feed your food with a deed for a dude.  I made mead.  Drink some drunks.  Bodily fluids come in many flavors, lover.   A labor of love can be a lube job.  I love to eat lover’s livers, if they leave her.  I’ve gone off the rails.  My point, and I do have one, is that meat isn’t necessarily chopped liver.  It can be brain.  It can be brawn.  It can be in brine.  Or it can be breakfast bran, with milk from the barn.  

I’m talking about the Eucharist, of course.  You a christ.  What’s eating you?  It’s okay, you’ll lose your godliness within the week, but the Sunday Mass will come in time to refill your virtue, so you can start the cycle all over again.  You’re a sinner, and god is perfect, so your prescription is to eat God weekly, refilling your vir-chew literally, until the end of time - that is to say, until you die, and meat your maker.   You might go up, to heaven, or down, to hell, or both, like Jesus, but hopefully you’ll ascend to On High, like high school, or higher education, and be hired in the service of the lord.  Your reward will be to go the ward, again.   Psych wards can be heavenly, of course.  War is hell.   And Caleb Ward, is he a ward of the state?  No matter.  No mass.  Not important.  Imports and ants and ass and mats and wardens and other words that work, like worms and wharf and warnings and warmth and warp and warts.   Wharf rat and warthogs and worms are all in the heavenly food chain.   Welcome to the holy land, the higher realm, your heavenly reward, paradise and praise and a pair of dice.  The Kingdom.  Where choirs of angels sing, and everyone is immortal, in heavenly bliss, and all is love.