We went to Border’s Books tonight. Met Al, our neighbor and assistant manager of the apartment complex we live at, and sat down and talked. While Christina studied, I stole away to the fiction section. Checked out the Kerouac books, Brautigan, Bukowski, Southern, Stahl. Brought two books back to the table. Read. Christina busily scraping her beautiful nose against her textbooks and notes.     Run with the hunt. Chryslers bleeding at sundown.              A dog chased me I crashed my bike into a car Flipped over the handle bars      Felt like passing out Dragon green Cheeter Slick                                                   Ventura at twilight                                                   Midnight moons                                                       Mother Jones                                                   Santa Monica Pier                                                   all the people gone                                                 I’m the last to carry out my                                                         --stuff__ Where is the plaid sky? Where are the vowels? and syllables? Where are the Mackeral heads in         downtown trashbins? Magic gravel window haven in the sky?      If ever the policies of light, if night’s decision to fade to night the last lamb in the razor, may dawn fly philly-like important idiot mangoes. I Love You, Christina!! (Albert Estiamba Jr.   Redondo Beach, California.  February 28, 2004.   1:56 A.M.)