I go to see the red dakini
I go to see the red dakini on display. To cleanse the soles of my feet. To cleanse
the palms of my hands. Her lion-faced attendant has long dangling nipples. I press
my hand on the prepared block. For a few seconds it appears on the surface. Blue
ghostly. And disappears.
I’ve been thinking about Jackson Mac Low. His presence at the scene of poetry.
Formal constraints. His devotional meditation practice. His unswerving political
beliefs. Interconnection is integrity. His large and calming face. Rubin Museum of
Art. New York, 3 August 2005.