Roommates, 1969

Brown the ed-psych man staring at a plaster wall of paisley doves

as he applies the theories of Skinner to a model fifth-grade class

and blows a plexi-sauna of homegrown marijuana;

Mann in a brown study, legging up for the space race

by gnawing tooth-marks down his slide rule,

as he mumbles over the text of Quantitative Analysis.

Well, it is not going well—in sum, it feels like hell—

and friend-gossip is the valve when things do not go well.

Mann complains to Portis: once

when they tripped, Brown lay all night observing the ceiling, cooing “Frog syndicate” and “Magellanic clouds.”

Brown tells Mills of these selfsame hours:

Mann pacing with incarnadine face then vanishing

until they went and found him shaking his fist at a light,

shouting, “Change, you motherfucker, change!”

Not ideal companions to say the least. No,

Portis tells Mills: Mann is a date thief:

that business in the closet: Mann with Brown’s sweetie:

her pale thong whitecapping among his penny loafers.

Mills cites other occasions:

Mann with his own honey; Brown across the room

demonstrating blood-pressure adjustment from his bed: “Imagine,

let’s say, you’re holding a live grenade, now suck

your asshole through the top of your head”;

Mann after the Warhol lecture, resplendent in blond wig,

slit skirt and pearls, lip-synching “Fever.” The same

night Brown saw it was Millicent, it had always been Millicent,

the Methodist minister’s daughter, who he truly loved.

A call, an afternoon, weekend visits from Cold Springs.

Mann’s second cousin: this settles things.

Except one night before a party, a joint—

she’s never tried it.

It pleases them she wants to take a hit:

itsy tokes, then bigger

until, comatose on the sofa, at peace,

she sits up like a spring.

“I’m blind,” she says,

“I can’t see a friggin’ thing.”

This instant then

as Brown bolts for the healing kitty—

Mann whispers, “George,

“we shall have to kill her.”