Tuesday, January 23, 2007

Poem for Robert Frost

Mister Frost, I walked past your house today & spit
Mister Frost, tourists were tickled PINK to peek in your window
Mister Frost, your foyer is filled with buttons
Mister Frost, your architecture angers me
Mister Frost, I don’t stop in snowy woods, I smoke cigarettes & squeal, yellow holy urine to coat drifting ice
Mister Frost, I don’t give a fuck bout my neighbor, he don’t know my middle name & I covet his porn
Mister Frost, I don’t write traditional stanzas, my brain's (a) jigsaw puzzle on speed
Mister Frost, I take drugs & drink booze, that’s how I brainstorm.
Mister Frost, I ALWAYS take the path less written & the girl most traveled.
Mister Frost, I feel fine in misery. quicksand keeps me warm.
Mister Frost, Have you ever read Gregory Corso/d.a levy/Sapphire/Alan Kaufman/Lowell/Lerner and (or) Yusef Komunyakaa?
Mister Frost, Poetry ain’t stardom
Mister Frost, Poetry ain’t sweet
Mister Frost, Poetry ain’t taught cos I say NO in cornered caves & cuz you wax HALLMARK bout nature neurosis

Mister Frost, (we) don’t write the (sam)e poetry
Mister Frost, I don’t get invited to presidential inaugurations, I’m too busy playing harmonica & protesting faulty, filthy governments on bongo paper progressions.

Mister Frost, most people don’t dig my shit. They say it’s weird & "too" lengthy & scat t e r e d
Mister Frost, I’m not mellow
Mister Frost, I’m James Taylor before rehab
Mister Frost, I lost my virginity in the WOODS-- bruce springsteen howled on a transistor boombox, she wuz on top, hard nipples hypnotized my pupils-- she wuz so wet, I wuz so quick, the LEAVES climaxed in an UH AH UH AH, mantra movements of slapping skin--
See? I write nature poems too.
Mister Frost, you should read Herbert Hunke, he has HIS tongue on the pulse of an alligator
Mister Frost, rip the covers off yer books & make tea. English majors murmur in coffeehouse critic america, sipping CORPORATE caffeine while yer queezy meandering enlightens their Writer’s Weekly libido.
Mister Frost, I don’t look down on poetry, but I DO look up women’s skirts
Mister Frost, I’m vulgar in all my couplets
Mister Frost, I fucking hate Thoreau as well. the two of you should shack up in the woods together & play paddy cake with pickles
Mister Frost, I don’t need nature metaphors. I personify a gunshot
Mister Frost, I write sonnets to girls who don’t want me, wuz YOU ever a sad puppy?
Mister Frost- I don’t go to church, I litter on Earth Day
Mister Frost, I’m e.e. cummings with an (F).
Miser Frost, I’m the eyelash of Rimbaud
Mister Frost, I’m my best nightmare but yer WORST reality
Mister Frost, I fuck with the lights on

by Chris Haas


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1 Comments:

Anonymous Sam Vargo said...

Hey, the guy could write a metered and measured work of art, but he was one really mean mo-foe, from what those cloest to him say, anyhow.

Who's opting for a post-mortum popularity party, Robert? Robert? Robert Frost?

- Sam Vargo

3:23 PM  

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