What we don't know is coming — around, from or to; all never too far away — taking us whichever direction where, waiting then or perhaps yet currently there, a subconscious simmer boils down to a why of no matter but an apparent residue that blends into the improvised pattern of tendencies holding perpetual lead racing to another flowering explosion of dawn shooting towards darkening shower of nightfall again clutched in the workaday mystery of wringing hands until somehow liberated to finally be able to just let it all go off on its own, in our own way — or so it’s wished in thoughtfully silent soliloquy circles personally brushing off this-&-thats under cover of breath which merely set us back long enough to guess at what seems to be on the run, chasing after what we’ve nearly escaped: some situation lived again in review; marching on, humming a familiar dirge out of time-en masse until the din levels outwards to a smear of fugitive memoriam oppositely flooding back, reaching into the vast likeness of, say, an alluvial fan whose imprint spreads beautifully self-evident above all when it’s done with itself & everything buried beneath.
This is what enduringly happens:
9/19/19 amiably arrived to introduce itself as not just another fleeting date of well-meaning makeshift symbols oddly balanced against themselves:
A curtain crevice beam of mid-morning awakened me early enough in a Boulder CO budget room to just lie there for a while contemplating nothing predictable but inertia, innocently beginning with a false-start beeline to reboot the new day at a lobby-side inclusive buffet to find a single biscuit left out like an arid orphan & an attendant ask for more breakfast gravy whose existing state of milk-like traces were left around the edges of its chafing dish to resemble a timeshare resort playa surrounding a mummified ladle scabbed in off-white, promising what had once been — Expectaltee: gravid, laden.
Checkout time found the minivan faced with its skid plate hanging from one side, coming off as an unsatisfied semi-tilde smirk that I respectfully understood so well I left town with one myself under paint chip remnants of a high altitude nosebleed, first north then west, to a next-to-last minute stop at an interstate billboard-driven Rock Springs WY auto dealership after five hours of fixation to plea this particular underlying concern which seemed over the years to always pop up or out primarily somewhere within the Badlands or Great Plains — a reoccurring phenomenon I’ve tried to elucidate as a regionally coincidental merger of indomitable wind & free-spirited allowance of expanding speed limits, though also turning up to the same degree when slowing down through curvy drop-off Bitterroot or Sawtooth routes, reappearing randomly any which way like some multi-terrain hallowed curse.
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