Paris Baguette Finale

Paris Baguette Finale

A retro-skinny, power-faced 40-something
scowls as she barely glances, moving her head
dramatically, high above the pedestrian show that
never ends. Oozy-rap can’t beat the word count,
even when piped many decibels above the booth
chatter. Arm-in-arm the ladies walk, about two
percent stroll paired-up heterosexually. “There are
no gay people in Korea,” she says, as we walk past
the Golden River Motel, six stories, adorned by pink
tip-down neon triangle trapping the word “in.”
There’s something about ultra fat lips that take up the
full width of a high-cheeked face that make you
want her number, whether you call doesn’t matter,
as the number would be enough to jog solo romance
time. Now camouflaged pants, tight, mix in with
those famous schoolgirl skirts. Banilla hits me in the
nose, as the goat-footed salesman whistles far and wee,
conjuring Taesan temple with its noisy stream, concrete
island, and Chilsun Cider soda machine. You occupy
the same space in Korea: an energy using contraption
full of contemporary issues, wildly out of place.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2007. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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