To You, After You've Read my Poems

I’ve made you angry. You wanted me to

provide a service, and now that it’s over

and I haven’t shown you what you were

looking for, you feel ripped off, cheated, tricked.

But consider The Persistence Of Memory,

how when the novelty fades, it can’t help

but remind you of what your old friends used to draw

in basements with magic marker, heads

full of acid. Most artists can only see

what you saw then, can only feel that

stinging disenchantment you felt when

you realized, on seeing them in person,

that your idols are flat and crude imitations, tangible

extensions of emptiness failing to provide

the answer you were looking for. Most paintings are

small. Most painters don’t know

a thing about being or oblivion.

You could say most are just fucking around.

Let me tell you now I never claimed to

know a thing about nothingness or how

you should live. My poems, cold wax sculptures

just real enough to entice you to touch them,

like the Mona Lisa is a pretty girl

you lust after until you learn she’s not

over her high school bullies and her

shitty parents. Yes, it’s tragic, but

isn’t it also beautiful the way you ache

when she makes you remember? Isn’t it

beautiful the way the crowds gather round her

still, desperate and awed

to be lost there together, squinting

at her tiny image through the glass?

Originally published in UCity Review

Considered Lost

I’ve been thinking a lot about the story you told me

about the cat you had growing up, how one day

you let it outside like usual but it never came home

and eventually you had to give up looking.

you said a month or so later, you went exploring

in the woods with your friend and found its body

curled-up next to some kind of animal hole

that looked like it, too, had been abandoned.

you never figured out exactly what happened.

for a long time, I wanted to be that cat –

to walk off the edge of the map and turn up later

emaciated and still, my white body a cautionary

ending perfectly preserved in the snow

like a fish in a grocery store. I had no interest in

the revenge of living, only in being missed

enough to be considered lost, a lack of closure

gushing under your shirt like an exit wound.

now, I want to know what made the hole,

want to find that mole or that groundhog

and swallow its heart, dab its blood under my eyes.

I want to become the thing that leaves just in time

and stays alive to know it, warm and asleep

while you sit on blue fingers and tell some girl

you never figured out what the beast was.

if she’s smart, she’ll ask you how long it was gone

before you even realized something was missing,

how long you really spent searching in the cold

before you gave up and went back to bed.

Originally published in isacoustic

Kat Giordano is a poet and crybaby from Pennsylvania. She is one of two co-editors of Philosophical Idiot. Her debut full-length poetry collection, The Poet Confronts Bukowski’s Ghost, is currently available through Amazon, and her work has appeared in OCCULUM, CLASH Magazine, Ghost City Review, the Cincinnati Review, and others, as well as a variety of manic, late-night Facebook messages. She tweets @giordkat and shamelessly sells herself at