Quan Yin is in my refrigerator

I am floating in a roundish room vibrating with low frequency waves.
Nothing to see but so much to feel.
Nothing to think but so much to know.
Electromagnetic spider webs of electrons ripple with the random flows of information
informed by the solar wind, solar flares, sun spots and powered by beats.
I am fascinated by the slow motion train wreck of life
leaving roses growing out of the tracks, cracks, fragments and broken peace.
Once again I have cut myself on a thorn while rearranging preselected debris
into random mandalas, pictures of Buddha and advertisements for my latest TV show.
My blood has been recycled for the purpose of pigmentaion.
I have used it to create a blush on the face of a well know deity -
I hope you don't mind.
You must hurry to see it before the red dries brown.

Windows of opportunity open and close
between the blinking eye in the triangle.
So much depends on whether or not
you can see this
otherwise it is just gibberish.
Lucky you can push a button
or feed your face you chocolate glutton

My foot prints are bread crumbs
that time eats with leaves and wind
Snow White is Quan Yin is in my refrigerator. Her eyes down cast
She is three inches tall and is so humble so small so cold.
I try to feed her milk but she will not drink
even though it is my birthday

When she speaks there is no sound
I convert her message into words
while the fire burns and dust devils become tornados.
Time slows down for everyone but me.