by Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé
All worthwhile sympathies ruled out, the dakinis are lagging in their step. “Don’t mind their petty worked-up fears,” the First Dakini says, always discreet, discerning and fully at ease with a public diplomacy. “Look at these ragged claws in the brick,” the First Dakini raises the kiln to eye level, “never enough good faith, never enough mindfulness around these parts anymore.” Give Mount Olivet a cenobitic reason and the sophists will be written in the stars, shivery and awkwardly built. The Neanderthals have objected to being seated with lower lifeforms, and have befriended the Yeti. Should the dakinis stay, they need endure the vicious harpies with their pageboy bobs, Pokemon-pesky, blank stares and tight fists in an ineffectual vanity and vacuity. “Walk away from the two-faced double-dealing,” Mani says to the seven dakinis, jumping through their hoops to get to his version of an Anglo-Saxon nirvana.
Last updated May 31, 2011