Title of an unwritten poem, from Robert Frost’s notebooks

I’d just come from the field, pulled off my boots,
And settled in before the fire, when
Discovering I was fresh out of cheroots,
I told myself, “I must go out again.”

An empty box at the tobacconist’s:
El Rey Havanas, with a list of contacts
Whom I suspected might be Communists
From north of Boston to the Adirondacks.

Well, truth be told, I’d contacts of my own,
Dick Nixon, Parnell Thomas, Martin Dies;
I rang up Central on the telephone,
Gave her a number: ‘twas the FBI’s.

Here in New England, we can’t be too wary:
Poets are counterrevolutionary.
                        

	Robert Frost, as rewritten by Gregory Corso

I just figured out
that for ten years now
the universe has been my job
I drove a cab through the trash-strewn streets of New York
looking for multitudes to smash 
but when I honked my horn all that came back
was its own goddam mocking echo 

I ran it off some cliff across in the Adirondacks
and as I hurtled toward the rocky lake
I cried out Life! Life! Life! and all I wanted back
was not some goddam echo
but a girl waif with stringy hair
shouting Death! Death! across the seat
while I kept screaming Life! Life! not because I meant it
just to keep the dialogue going
looking for love in contradiction.

If I had a girl, I'd drive off a cliff with her
crash into the scree on the other side,
splash into the rotting water
I'd let her swim for a while
but that might prove me too human 

maybe I'd rut her like a great buck 
pushing the crumpled water with my stallion fury
and land pouring like a waterfall
and stumble through the rocks with horny tread,
and leave her as I hit the underbrush
and that would be all.