Design became my bread winner.

Rhyme is a crime of passion. For everybody. Riven to tread, flirt after its fallen archers and emblazoning with symmetries fountlet --

Suddenly I'd get lost, out at edges of righteousness and meaning, and would descend into petulance -

Quizzically, at depths of religious beauty - what purifies also terrorizes. P for Purity? Well that's a Monster Cookie - Clandestine monsters in heavens larder who with angels screaming, would hit a breach!

Poetry had let loose a monster whose mystery was self devouring. Perpetually gazed after grazed after emblazoning with bee twitchery…

Buzzing got so bad, came to point I had to teach myself how to find "lines" -

Which is what I do now ? use drawing to help define edges with specific purpose, as a matter of surface and in a community where courts cavorts cradles in search of meaning ? I like to think of it as Vincent and the South of France.

Design — on the other hand, is a finder after direct proportions, getting into technical with details and engaging as a conversation in design, with life with form, with planes and patterns — patterns devoured, with the application of balance and color.

To teach a color theory painting class means I paint too.

But rhyme is a crime of passion. Was riven to tread, flirt after its fallen and symmetries, scintering into blazes, whose gods are an infinity of righteousness, rapture that traffics in ancient imp latent patterns, as gravity falls into.

Design became my bread winner. Poetry and the willingness to dally there, feverishly and attack the impotence where hacked and flowered, was on, in dog with the junkyard brought me to see, that its an obligation to the true blue you flew bandying randy and sandy… the wash out and the weary, is really left off to a wrestling with self, of any compromising worth. The mediators can be stick and tar, windborne, feathery….