When I'm not writing,
I have the terrible feeling,
That I do not have feeling,
And can no longer write

The night has fallen
Bad guys have scattered the streets
Let’s get dangerous

Whipped out his gas gun
He swooped out of the shadows
The terror that *****

Looks for the bad guys
Approaches them in the distance
**** gas, evildoer!

Took out his smoke bomb
He creates his grand entrance;
Very Determined

He’s ready; willing
For the villains to make their move
Let’s get dangerous  

Fights crime all night long
Ducks every fist-punch and kick
He is Darkwing Duck!

He is the victor
At the end of every night
The Midnight Mallard

Champion of right
Daring Duck of Mystery
He is “The Duck Knight!”

A father by day
Then a crime fighter by night
lives the double life.

It’s one of the best
Disney Afternoon shows ever.
It’s simply the best.


Darkwing Duck, Copyright of Disney. Est. 1991.

I sometimes think it is unfortunate
That nothing escapes my pen but tales of an unrequited love.
I wish I could write about
Why I have not stepped foot in a church
Since the day I found catharsis in the word "alone",
The first time I truly felt safeguarded
Or the first time the word "divorce" shattered me.
I wish I could describe
The smell of a chilly fall night with crisp air and rain-dampened pavement and how it inaugurates autumn
Or the remorse felt toward a child who let go of his balloon to be left to the mercy of capricious winds on the Fourth of July.
But instead I am stuck incapable of writing anything but run-on sentences about Loss,
Why the burn of whiskey tastes better than that misconception of 'home'
And turning cracked pavement into metaphors about heartbreak.