Useless Dickey Memory

By Cliff Morris

I once had afternoon drinks with poet Hank Malone and his friend, James Dickey. All I know is that even the booze couldn't soften the stiff air. For whatever reason, not a dozen words were exchanged in the hour. Maybe if I'd thought to leap on the table like a drunken Hemingway, moon the women and curse the idle barkeep, then perhaps some kind of life may have erupted in Dickey and Malone--by the brazen show of liberation from the great mind-numb. What the fuck was that all about??

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