Las Vagueness or Whauut?

It's a long haul across the last lost sprawl west of
the San Rafael Swell. And you don't say it the way you
spell. Especially when you are blowing west through
the snowing's best test and showing stress. There are
few other cars to view on the road, about as many as
finally are off the road. But the sane planes wouldn't
fly and instead of try to cross the backbone to get to
where we would have flown, we just took a left and
left and drove west, into the weather nest, not under
the desk. We took a little risk and hoped for the
best. It carried on scary and fast and low. We were
just trying to make the show. By the time and place
where we were still far far away but close enough to
say we could see the stuff of myth legends and famous
beginnings of ends, the storm was all petered like
bony grubby money lost on dice-dots in slots and
parking meters. It hid little veins and arcs of stark
of white stuff trying to make it to the night just
like us. If you ever saw that squinty city that does
your bidding off in the perfect middle of where it
looks little and should never sit still, like an open
window sill displaying a fraying wind blown quill, at
that time before it's light enough out to make it out
but you do make it out and stake it out anyway too. It
doesn't look really real and really it doesn't feel
real. Until you spill your fill into the insatiable
slots and tables and are unable to enable a comeback
at blackjack. Oh yeah, it's real then, my only fiend
friendless friend. Famous beginnings of infamous ends.
It doesn't look like much out in the clutch of such a
much maligned American miracle whip desert full of
silk slips and gapers gripping worthless scrips of
paper and land yachts and booze trips like landlocked
half cocked cruise ships serving the deserving
carefully chosen brazen inert frozen desserts for
small tips. And if you get past the last less than
free neon freon concoction of high octane action for a
silver shivering sliver and a fraction and lose your
shirt but don't get too hurt and turn your back and
make tracks with your slacks on, you'll fall out the
southern side empty as low tide or the inside of
pockets on said trousers. You'll slide south like a
mouth, tooth and gout as if the map was a trap where
the gravity of gravity really will rally and laugh at
your last ditch folly itch and plant you firmly in the
flimsy filthy earth at the first stop on the third
worse third world border, brightly terse and fierce
with vise and mirth that smolders. And out of order is
the order of the odious day. It's the way things stay
this way. And living in corrugated cardboard with a
disregarded dirt floor and yard, for god's sake. Break
the thirst and slake your best misstep in the stagnant
repugnant lake of distaste in a haste to make your
escape and traipse like apes out of the grip back to
Miracle Whip Strip and happily repeated yet regretted
road trips.