I’m Not The Real Ron. Lavalette
No; the real Ron. Lavalette goes to bed at a reasonable hour, watches TV until he dozes off twice, then puts on his favorite Pandora lullaby channel and successfully completes his quest for a minimum of six-to-eight hours of unbroken, restful, healthy sleep.
No, wait; that’s not true. That never happens. Most nights, what really happens is that the real Ron. Lavalette always stays up more-than-a-little too late, hoping that exhaustion will drive him to sleep quickly (which never happens) and then he watches TV until he can no longer count the incidences of pre-sleep dozing. Then he puts on his favorite Pandora lullaby channel and hopes it coaxes him into at least a reasonable excuse for a few scant hours of uneasy, sketchy napping.
No, not tonight though. Tonight the real Ron. Lavalette is nowhere near his bedroom. Instead, he sits sullenly at his insomniac keyboard hoping for inspiration and instructs me, his sleep-deprived alter-ego, to sit close by and nudge him if it looks like he might drift off.
I gotta find me somebody else to be.
Drift on over HERE for more 6WS fun.
Check this out:
more than he deserved
(more than better dead men got)
his name carved in stone
—only scorched earth left behind
thousands of orphans crying—
.esimorp I .keew txen evitaerc erom eb ot yrt ll’I .yrroS .keew siht gnihton tog I oS .esolc neve toN .emordnilap a TON si ‘neetrihT’ .remmuB…..Bummer. ‘Thirteen’ is NOT a palindrome. Not even close. So I got nothing this week. Sorry. I’ll try to be more creative next week. I promise.
Better efforts at the NEW THURSDAY 13
Even when I sleep, I still see you;
my memory a small ship, rocking
on slow tides, a leaf, adrift
on swells of remembrance.
What’s the point of genius, then,
if words obscure and plot disguise
an art we know is buried there,
but cannot see through unenlightened eyes?
That’s it and he just can’t
do it anymore, worn out
from hauling all that belly around
all day every day and he
can’t sleep at night either,
most nights, for lack of air.
Instead he stays in bed
until he can’t stand it anymore,
gets up and goes into his office
to sleep at the keyboard.
He tries to let his fingers
do the talking.
Even as he types out the daily plan
waiting for his coffee to brew,
he can’t believe it’s come to this:
this is what he does for kicks.