Stephen Policoff
Mickey wandered into my dorm room, eyes wide with chemical enhancement. In that dislocated December of 1967, Mickey was always tripping, and I was not far behind hm.
“Ummm SimonGold,” he murmured, “Allen Ginsberg is up at Vassar.”
He always called me SimonGold, as if that were the only reasonable way to say my name. “Big reading, Dahlia says. That’s where she is this year. Let’s go up there. Yes?”
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