Portrait of the Artist as a Cartoon

Silence, exile, cunning, I resolve to embrace
them gladly, proudly; and then the phone rings
and I trip and fall all over myself
running for it, hoping it's for me,
praying my luck has changed, my time has come.

To a Certain Critic

Walking in the woods, you turn over a rotten log.
Out from under crawls something very snotlike and pale.
If it could open its mouth and talk good English,
you'd know exactly what you sound like to me.