Weird fun psychedelic streaming ad hoc newsreporting by joe rossi. The Joe Rossi Report.
And then to where I roam and there without
& sunshine eyes
The coast she rolls to Carlsbad,
cool doom & games in legobrickslandlaid
We bounced upon her turnpike face,
faced down a sunset not drab nor grey
But bursting burst fourth with
all manner of play, in waves that rolled like smooth silken glades
(in the miniland tour of New York City, indeed the two foot prints sit offset by a tall freedom tower preincarnate in toyland)
(VH1 went backwards 1976, and Jessica Lange, gorgeous dumb dwan in huge dark hands
& an earlier reinvision of the vision on the beast. And this Kong there played the scene of his giant leap from one tower to the other.”)
& upon this backyard. Wayward flow puzzle
shine pundit spin in cal poly romances & Lorie Phaff & the 57 corridor through
diamond bar & Daniel the guitar player freak on echo feedback, echo/bunnymen
screaming people our strange in some closed business floor space just off the highway
in the middle of the night ….
& spit and polish, new Detroit breed
in a thundercoat, racecar getaway television dream team
an actor burnt on liberal piety & conservative shades of gray
the focus to remain calm
saw Christian by the Sea
practicing not practicing
talking books, and songs, & memories of family
by the Sea.
And Ted Bishop sits inside the laguna hills of my memory, are fading away
In the fields behind Irvine Meadows, where the spirits came to play one day.
Just Suzanne Sommers once scored high in UC Irvines computer class and was last seen romancing in the bay area and just as surely subsiding into the recessed scenes
Of what was, once was, the mental imagery
Of names & faces, discarded in the glass, or the history
We drink with fatal class.
Happenings in the parking lot, the forever lost on 1960 crowd
Dancing in the aisles tween cars & circles of souls
& thinking how that Seventies, and how Surrender sounds exactly the same at the end as they do on that Seventies Show, only Daddy’s not all right, and Mama shes retired military, yes, & we’re hanging out, down the street. That was a cheap trick he says,
almost as an afterthought
combats fatique with more coffee
Starbucks®brewed in a starbucks coffee pot
& splenda tossed in, to ease our stimulated way
into more words, unending words, formented, fermented in
Sam Plastic’s Cosmic Stove.
And nowhere to go but forward and so we must
Discuss the dark corner that waits all of us, and how is it we don’t know just as sure as we
Knew how to breathe
How to eat
How to think
How to sleep
How to dream
We know how to die as part of one Larger Process of which we all partake
The Unfolding of Human History, from our unique perspective
Shows us the way we are to live, for a time, and then die, for a time.
Forever. A period.
A diamond of eternity, ever radiant, on black velvet
Revealing the hidden secrets & the shadows of lust.
Trust in the energy of night
That pulls you to slumber, to the strange place of dreams
Where faces & friends & a mysterious lover it seems, change
Shapes, phantasmagoria, into the shadows of the day’s new events, to become memories hinted
At, achingly, in moments of déjà vu & sudden remember (ing)
In parking lot crowds, and B. Weisman & Sharon, wondering aloud or the Abroad gang in the Sierra Nevada, or with Robb Shinn, & Travis, Caustic Monkeys rabid punk heavy tapping drummer.
Driving down Huntington to Ronnies & the light pole falling and the fixtures fading of failed attempts to be who you’re not, and so what it was all a masquerade, a game to play, a joke that failed in the cool wispy salty gasps of ocean air in Newport Beach, where we first set sailing.
Cousin Rhonda and her blonde friend chick can’t quite pin down her name. And in Laguna Bishop & Freedom & Enterprise.
W/ Lori Hardy, or Byron at a New Year’s party on the Rose Parade Route
Death will comes as natural and timely and perfect as every other wave that ripples across the timeless face of God.
It’s in the Buddha come Jesusmind
that all is One & beyond sublime
just simple ideas
& a State of Grace.
No bloody Koran or Biblical overkill on an ancient kingdom’s bloodlust
Or the warring thoughts of man against mankind and ideas like the world is flat
& heaven hangs with gates of pearl, in the clouds that float above our childlike eyes.
(& virgins shall dance with men free to deliver, and the righteous shall sit in judgement of their brothers.)
Yeah right we are no more pawns than our gods Kings and Saviors, White & shining on white horses with swords of lights & books of Names of the chosen, the select & the righteous.
No doubt today it might be called the Democracy of God, and God drives a Hummer, with PODCASTS of his word ready with wireless transfer for download to the chips dug in just beneath our skulls.
So Big Brother may watch us as we shine, shine, shine.
And in Jesus Christ Light Grace
A bloody scourge and battered Saint bleeding
For the Great Cannibal Feast and the flowing grails of
Mystical magical blood, infused with flowing sparkles of love & grace.
The feast of the love vampire. The Drinking of the Blood.
Yes, maybe so in the dream exercised trial & judgement
of a lifetime’s activity and Life as a Whole
& a price paid, atonement hewn
in a fucking murder. A freaking gothic horrorif act of barbarity.
No a Light May Shine.
Like a Cosmic Flashlight
From someplace deep and low
In the pit of your soul.
Did Waterlion take elbop’s berekley breathed along with the reason for one
Generation’s hope?
Oh the cold dark night of the soul
And in this final fragment of thoughts to be continued on until who knows when
Flow control has us flowing from this reading & scribing of our living will.
No doubt flow control will find us later on, and maybe on some distant morning.
Return to discuss the wild party of mindstorms going on over at Sam’s place
That hip party of the underworld, and all the fantastic magical beasts that swarm there
To frolic & to play, that mental mindspace called Sam Plastic’s Cosmic Stove, where all the ancients
Like to go.
If you lean your head too hard to hear Bob Dylan’s Desolation Row.
