  Last night I cooked diner for 11 friends, which in all reallity I had no clue I could pull off. But the evening went awesome. I cooked cornish game hens with a cranberry jalepeno stuffing with sauted zucchini with stewed tomatoes topped with parmesean, asiago, and romano, and as a soup I did a saffron shrimp bisque. Just sitting down and laughing with friends was wonderful. Thanks to Jim everything became "of Doom". The drawer of Doom with loose knives, and the Cat of Doom that would randomly attack and the only way you would know is by the ear peircing scream of whoever Dusty the Cat decieded to attack.
From last night also came that I am going to own my own restaurant and employ all of my friends in different areas of the business. For the past week I have woke in the mornings and felt the powerful breath of autum coming on. I do believe it is in a Dar Williams song "summer is beginning to give up her fight. " This morning however was the realization that autum is actually here and I felt like I was in Seattle. With the gray heavy clouds looming over a never-ending sky, and the rain that didn't really fall but drizzeled down.
Not quite heavy enough to make you realize you were getting soaked but by the time you ended up where you were headed you were completely drenched. Ahh have I said I love the rain :) The following is a poem I wrote back in Novemember but have had on my mind for a while and thought I would share with you all Broken Hallelujah Turn stale knob of radio on, effortless crack of the wrist: infamous words pour out ripped speakers, a hole-punched reservoir.
Such a chatterbox - gibberish sentences incomprehensible to ears and mind (a shortage in the circuit), letters squashed like sardines. Hiccupped talk interrupted: flamed lullaby spilling through, a jaw-dropping funeral march (closed casket); nothing but a rhythm whore, pause. Eavesdrop on explicit, newfound streetlight song, tapered and perfect like a birthday card. Vibrate and quiver at complicated iambs, eerie composition with a magnetizing lure: a shovel for the grave, gravity menace.~ BAS 
