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My Shadow 
is a Cat



Working with the Japanese artist, Kaori Mitsushima, we created poetry and visuals together. The zine is a sort of conversation we had, told through poems and art works and vice versa. Kaori has a playful, pure sort of innocent and curious relationship to creativity that makes her an ideal collaborator. We both share an interest in animals and myths and dreams, as well as a thoughtful and compassionate way of engaging with the world.


Published in April 2010


———— Credits:
Poems by Peter Hlinka 
Artworks by Kaori Mitsushima

————————————

Marriage of 
the Honey Bee 
to the Tree



before the first
there was the third
form of thunder

it did not arise
from a jagged line
but from a furred
point

a rumbling hum that shuddered
pollen from velvet
petals

and covered in gold
wrote the secret
heart of tree
in wax and paper
labyrinth

the Queen

the Queen is only One of We
who knows
the sacred lambent
amber art of bee

Honey



————————————

Djinn



a heart inside the brain
that is 
a frog turned into stone

a tongue that’s used 
for cutting things

a house inside a bottle
to call your home




————————————

The Feline
Colossus 
Guards the Door



the cat sparkles
like a tiny god
by the door
that is opening

lying on the floating
bed you consider
the long drop
to the floor

and the walk
that will shrink
your body
to the size
of an eye

by the feline colossus
along the ancient
trade route of ants

you hesitate
before the light
of the bright carpet

and then it is closed

everything is as it was
once before



————————————

The City X



She told him she lived
in a city
where every third person
was disfigured,
a large part of the face missing,
a brain that is a fetus,
scars from acid burns,
limbs that grow in strange places,
but everyone pretended 
it was normal.

On the morning commute
in the subway
a man’s ear fell onto the seat
beside him,
he continued to read 
the paper 
as she picked it up
and put it in her pocket book.

Later that day,
the butcher tells her
while wrapping meat
in wax paper,
“there are ticks
you can’t see
that feed on fear 
and they are all over
my body.”

“Something has happened here
that no one can speak of,”
she says as she empties her purse – 
“there is the man’s ear,
a lady’s pinky,
a child’s nose… 
all of these things tell a story
about the city
their person could not tell.

Only in dismemberment are they free
to give voice to their history…

closing her eyes
she presses the dead 
ear to her lips
then returns it to the table 
she listens to the voices
this person has heard
all his years
funnel from this flesh
gramophone,
feels herself turning
into furniture,
her lover now an old chair -
soon it will be 
only an empty room
with the missing pieces
of humans, and the sense 
of their presence
of never having fully cleaned
death from this room.



————————————

The King of Signs 



Clip my shirt and pants of their price tags; let wigs 
of brown hair flutter beside the open bag.
Cloak my face with a suitcase; lead me by the hand
The King of Signs has arrived.

Count each pound as it falls through the body and 
piles in a mound, paint my lips and nails 
the color of bloom, pierce my tongue with metal
studs – brand me with tattoos. 

Bind my collar with golden rings, pull my head
from its neck, tie my body in corset, yank
the leather strings, place my feet in shrinking shoes,
cocoon them in wounds.

Let all those searching for the perfect version 
find what is lacking inside.  Let me be the 
scene in the mind of beauty and happy times.
The King of Signs has arrived.  



————————————

The Smiling Spiders



outside the world
he sleeps inside
a boulder

that is hollow 
like a womb
but cold

with gray light 
falling and silver
silk lines

the orange light
of spider eyes 
is only one

of many colors
wrapped in gray
cotton fur

they make their way
to his sleeping mouth
trembling

they step inside



————————————

The Bird Cage



there were two birds
in the cage, perched
on the swing together
one brightly feathered
one with long coarse fur



————————————

A Soldier in
the Army of 
Rose-eaters



always in the company
of the army
you married me
because I came to you
unmade

in lieu of a ring
I gave you
a tiny black box
tied with pink
silk ribbon

the gift of my voice
I told you
all my tattoos are sub-dermal
I am a soldier in the army
of rose eaters
I am trapped in the body
of a dinosaur
free me

only because I asked
did you  make my mouth
a basket for flowers 
so people would not fear me

but then I could never say your name…


skipping along with my head in your hands
pulling flowers from my mouth
you sang
the army of rose-eaters
is marching.


Follow me.



————————————

Dirt poor



cupping the hands of liars

ancestors gather

at the same age

when they are dead 

and once were fathers


all of it took residence 

in the face



————————————

Suburban Prayer



Goddess of mirrors and sacred
unnamed places

you are the angel 
who turns on street lamps
in passing

Grant us safe passage 
through the torpor 
of suburban nights – 
the touch of your finger
like the ignition
of a car engine
the wind of one wing beat
the sense of death 
from a near collision 
in a dormant village

carry the souls of all pets
in your plaid micro-skirt
may your monthly blood-letting
be the passing of all regrets

do not let my life
become worthless



————————————

Amazed 
by the Night



the bowl of stars
filled the all
with awe 
and myth

they were centaurs
and satyrs 
no longer lost
in the forest

they dreamed
of floating 
on the ocean
or flying

in space –
their tongues
could taste
words

they circled the blaze
beating the drums
of their red chests

someone started to tell
a story

in the fire light
their eyes shined 
like teeth

what they ate 
was everything



————————————

Attack of the 
Blue Whale 



parting
the baleen curtain
drifting backwards down
the tunnel of the hanging tear
your heart is a dying rabbit
you hold in your hands



————————————

The Hunter



I lie
to the hunter and the hunter
lies to me

I tell the body where to go

through the clouded crowds
of the heavy city
to the distant office
in the trees

I split 
and unzip
from within

the paper songbirds burn

the butterflies pile in heaps
like dry leaves 

one day they say the prey return
to their skinned bodies

I lied 
to the hunter and the hunter          

lied to me

 
          
————————————

Rabbit 
Full of Milk 
and Morning 



an unseen hand
grabs a handle 
on his back 
when he prays for wings
he fills with milk and mornings

dawn pours 
from his mouth
as he drains
the symbols bloom in blue 
on his hard and hallowed body



————————————

Hula-Hoop 
from Hell



Don’t ever touch
the plastic rabbit
flat like a cross
over her bed.

Don’t ever tell her
her teeth are chalk,
when she sleeps
she screeches words 
backwards 
on the blackboard
of her hell.

Don’t ever trust
the advice of others,
close the bubble,
throw the dice instead.

Little sister,
who never steps
outside the ring
of her pet demon’s
hula-hoop – I fear 
I will never see you
growing again.



————————————

Delphic Celibacies 
in the Temple 
of the Floating 
Island



There is the wall
made of peonies 
the tire irons broken
on the front lawn.

All the sprinklers are waving in arcs – 
the design of palm trees outlined 
in beads of radiant water

Neglected, the German gnomes commiserate by the tool shed.

The mushrooms have begun to grow.

The peasant climbs down the ladder of the tree house,
his bag is open and empty, ready
to collect the soft umbrellas.

Everyone is wondering when the snake will make its first appearance,
when the shower cord will coil and flicker a hidden tongue
when the branch will crack its sheath and slide through the grass

When will we bite the apple to free the worm from its core?



————————————

Toad



People are mistaken when they see my dog
who likes to sit on a pile of wood
in the front yard 
and stare over the fence;
he is in fact a large toad
who holds the souls of insects
in his chest, their gears whirr deeply
beneath his furred neck 
like heavy silver balls 
rolling in a stone pit.



————————————

Anchor



each night he constricts
a certain sorrow
that reaches down
past his knees
curls around 
a calf
to shackle
an ankle
and burrows into
the earth 
an anchor
that hardens
with each image
that passes

a pulsing 
of light

the distant 
knowledge
of objects
that move
through him



————————————

Dog 



follow the dog
under the bed 
into the hole
in the wall

crawl

there is a room 
where all the lost things are
and nothing is paired 

there is a mound
of socks that sinks 
as you climb it 

in each soft sleeve
you sense a hardness
a tiny stone

but you are wrong
they each contain
a little toe



————————————

Kitchen Olympics



broomstick
curtain rod 
javelin
coffee mug 
shot put
discus
dinner plate
toxic 
aerosol
anger

sprinting 
without 
breathing

a coach 
who yells 
in every 
mirror

the butane torch
that is always lit
in the endless games 
of self 
destruction



————————————

The Question Mark



Someone leads me
through my memories
through the hundred
drifting buildings.

On each door 
the angel of forgetting 
has left a question mark
in pink blood 
to guide the elderly

Through the parted door I see – 
the querulous curve
of the cat’s tail
the dot of the puckered 
star
the furred beckoning finger

I leave my body in its bed
and take my clues:

a walking stick in the shape
of a pink flamingo,
a question mark
where an angel bit
my upper arm…

I am the puzzles hung on each wall.

Nothing is ever
where I left it.

A glistening red 
dentist chair 
where there are no answers.

Someone leaves me there. 



————————————

The Linoleum Blanket  



Her wings singed and worn like oven mitts.
Her fingers wrinkled like shrunken heads.
Her likeness trapped in the thick pane 
of the oven window.

His briefcase full of blank pages.
His suits of unfashionable styles.
The texture of his rubber hands.
The furred line of his spine.

Her ceiling fan lapping shadows in the kitchen.
Her coffee mugs with maps of dry river beds.
Her hawk pinning swallows to the clothes line.  
The lightning rod of the bird-feeder.

His temper like a small red light.
His fear of all affection.
His humor of circus mirrors.
The goat unicorn tethered to his leg.

Their secret meetings in the kitchen
hours after midnight,
peeling back layers of old 
linoleum floor,
falling asleep in the plastic bed
under the table,
their snores are a dream rewinding
through the lives of many strangers
they have been before.



————————————

Mad



statues of me
carved in dense Idea
now defaced
burnt and broken signs
of Goal and Intention

a village 
and then a city

the places I almost died 
a thousand times
when this war was waged 
to a standstill

I was a giant underground
who somehow could not move



————————————

Oracle of the Throat



She has an orphic goiter
and a mouse
tied to her wrist
with dental floss.

Pressing two fingers
to her carotid prune
she prophesied
what he already knew
but wanted to hear
from another person
she said, 
“you know,”
and then she left him
in the forest
that was once
a sewer.

Sometimes he thinks
he can feel 
her voice
reaching inside him,
his throat burning
like an oil fire
deep inside 
an abandoned mine.

He dreams of meeting 
this woman
that has never been
apart from him,
he dreams there will be
an end
to prophesy
when he awakens.



————————————

Owl Dream



It is a winter story and Snow White
is an owl
haloed in blue before the waxing 
gibbous moon
floating over the frozen lake
the only sound 
is the who and scythe of passing shadow
of a question hung in wind and wings.

A hail of mouse heads begins to fall… 
a dream
of the first Christmas tree, 
never severed from the earth,
garlanded in seven dead friends: 
in Snake and Frog and Mouse, 
in Rabbit and Rat, in Bird and Fish – 
downy pellets of excrement dress the bottom,
and you are perched like a dread angel 
or turning star at the top.



————————————

Underwater Aviator



an empty Cessna flies through seas

around the hidden mountains

above the burning parting floor – 

a pyre of onions smolder

on the driver’s seat 



————————————

Aspic of the Godless Mimes



sherpa informers have led you astray
in narrow corridors of corporate hotels
where Hutsul dancers pair and pirouette
down the darkened cul-de-sacs 

the majordomo of powdered bone
has been gifted with a laundry bag
in which are hidden three
sleeping beetles 

you take them to the room
of burning maps 

there is a Jell-O mold
for all possible forms
but you’ve misplaced it

you do not trust 
what you know 
of the world     
but you pretend to



————————————

Opening 
the Mirror 



there is a way
to empty yourself
by staring in a mirror

if you believe
it is a window