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--- Theodore Wei Changsheng Malaga is a town high on a blue mountain overlooking a gorge. One cathedral is flagged like a maypole. That Chinese restaurant serves soft peanuts in tiny woks. All the other details are flattened like your box of Communist red and chunky taxi-yellow letters receding into it. There, I noticed someone patented Cezanne’s handwriting as a bitter font; it curls like cake icing. Forget about encountering some porcupine fanning its quills or cheese shoes with their stinky soles or any merry-go-uncle to string you rosaries of poppy seed or tablecloths with crabs of flint. Hang-gliding between those two mountains severe as constitutions, you can’t see the seaside cabanas, even from up here. A blind man has run himself off the cliff. It’s just as well no one believes in fortune cookies in Malaga the hilltop hideaway; we’re milder mannered leaving our tourist goodbyes on paper napkins, threadbare. It must be love whistling through the flower market. |
© crossconnect, inc 1995-2006
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published in association with the
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university of pennsylvania's
kelly writers house
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