Recipe for Ammunition

... Things I normally don't eat.
Awoke swollen and head-achey in the middle of the night, groggy staring
at the ceiling. I had a food binge hangover I guess.  Remorseful too.
Kinda shitty feeling, the beehive in my head buzzing ideas of how casual it
was for me to enjoy family, and without thought graze for hours as if it
didn't count, this time because I was in some kind of safety zone.
Human's do that... It made me think about moments and habits.

A casual tie can be sneaky like putting on a couple of pounds, no biggie- to
next year I've doubled my weight, that makes me a biggie. Such a confused state of mind.
That leads me to the word casualty.
A languid creeper to an aha moment of, "dammit, wha what?!"
I don't like to use that word as a substitute for killing.
Same for the term collateral damage. What is that, a little extra ech as a side dish?
Used so permissively to block reality &/or guilt because
there's a lacking to learn how to cope with it the fact that we choose to eat lies daily.
Maybe a better description of a casualty of war is enabled denial?
The numbing spin of semantics at times seems so silly.
Other times, I have to admit, I get sucked into the orb and get sick about it.
I'm reminded it's not a productive solution.

However,some of us humans seem to love to eat & feed the same puke to others.
They've become fat & gone broke in the process.
But this odd insatiable drooling urge to consume lives packaged in death as
punishments spiced in emotional relative crimes drives them.
And once over eating is uncovered & shown how it's a killer, the sick propose
a new crazed crash diet.

The chest opens bare to the basic mediocre standbys.
A missing cornucopia of gourds and fruits, salami and cheese.
Musty arid scents create a growling hunger.
The world goes shopping.
A coupon clutch pitted under the shoulder of a nation
marming aisles in a hovering house coat scanning for the best deal labeled "murder-lite".
Although no one's actually read the ingredients list,
new and improved encourages the willingness to buy extra.
For the right justified consequence to serve, we'll
make room in the cupboard because it's looks like such a great deal,
" It's not hording," they explain, "it's planning our menu..."
Times are lean so we must make do.
At home all our ingredients laid out before us, same as always.
But the need to change up the flair for the feeding of War and Reasoned concession is grave.

Armies of glistening vest of pork ribbed bullets, gleaming skins of artichoke grenades, leek stalked rifles, a variety of young scalloped private potatoes.

AirForced suckling duckling jet bombers, canopied cauliflower parachute jumpers with a drizzling of sweetened condensed Hydrogen.

Split & scooped Navy fleets of fileted maguro, an aesthetically pleasing plate shows nori sails tented by blindly raised white scud asparagus, sprinkled with agent orange roe sailors of yon who can't remember the "Big One"...it got away.

Gound-nut troopers oozing rare roasts of hummers and tanks; skin seared by ultra violet night lights, sandy sugar dusted machine gun peas.

"No really, you must try the remote controlled demi-glaze drones."
A smart, neat, creative presentation. The taste dynamic, subtle, left lingering for another bite.

However, once we dive in all the plates look the same, the table clothe is collecting stains
that club soda won't fix.  The crumber is useless now.
Each battallion breakfast, lunch, and dinner a desperate attempted moment of hurried gobbling goblins, who shovel food and fodder, stretching the stomachs,
cursing themselves deep down inside somewhere,
for having eaten too many rolls before the meal just long enough
to enjoy another pouring of deep dry burgundy.
Maybe tighten it up a bit for a bloody mary, splashed with the nuclear pop of one grande cube of ice.
And for dessert a binary upside-down privacy cake, topped with chocolate one's and zero sprinkles.  Ah the satisfying taste of baked RAM.
Although, something good can come from burning reflux.
Eyes water and it's clearer what we see.
We are what we eat.
The peace-meal glutton may well realize he's been eating in an average mess-hall that stinks of dismally soggy crusted  warm expired containers branded as frozen Lean Cuisine knock-offs mixed with a piquant sting of sterno.
And hopefully, after expulsion tremors,
The change within is less driven by fear of starvation, and more a motivated reality of what really needs to be protected: Lives
The path toward a bowl of milk and honey laden peace, raspberry compote of love, and a scoop of boysenberry freedom icecream. Yummy!