:: Article

Four Poems

By Feliz Lucia Molina.


Some daydreams are prettier in words than the object itself.
Font-types are types of attitudes.

I’m browsing for abandoned castles in “luxury real estate” to occupy a small castle to convert it into the Hologram Lover Hotel somewhere in obvious France. I can already smell the place. It smells of old stone, rose, pomegranate, jasmine, sunflower seeds, geranium. Purple and red butterflies get caught on a chandelier, bees wax drips on a stone staircase leading down toward the wine cellar. A lover keeps tying and untying a cravat back into an ampersand. I am on the dining room table wedged between a pair of legs laughing hysterically about my Bank of America account being empty. A door slams. A lover jumped out the window into someone else’s daydream. The sun is still out. It’s 7:41pm. The sky turns a pale orange sorbet ice cream that goes on for acres and heartaches. You’re so happy because there’s no Internet inside this castle and run around barefoot through the wireless pear trees. I keep laughing at my own broke-ness. It is something I keep giving birth to. Negative. Decline. Overdraft. Everything is beautiful. We don’t have jobs. We haven’t worked in years and haven’t written a poem for hours. The castle is bugged with sensors that play music depending on how we walk. The backyard is filled with holographic lovers from the past and future. The present disappears every time I think about it. It disappears before I even get to see it. A future lover hologram motions toward the swings by the pond dotted with black and white swans. You shuffle through every lover from the past and future like songs on your iTunes. I am lazy and shuffle through sentences, hardly whole books. We fall asleep on the laps of those holographic lovers.

The following morning I ask you to order more holographic lovers from the internet. I make you orange juice. I can make you anything.


In Petco I held a small guinea pig
and stared into its eyes as far as it would allow

It had no conscience and I dropped it
poor thing

has to exist during a financial crisis
like the rest of us though this animal

Is more cute and more vulnerable
gets away with being those things

And has a home the rest of us fight to keep.


Keith Haring was real caring about AIDS but not aging and I’m returning to so many things while thinking about you its reasonable to wonder what you’re doing far far away, so far away while I lay in bed not crying over so many things we could be dying about but basically remembering little faces of Brooklyn brunches when we went broke from too much buying of god knows what and Giorgios at the bodega ATM machine laughing, just laughing about being negative beyond nothing and how he went throwing money at us on the street walking home and how we couldn’t see from all the pouring of tequila Patron shots, yes, yes, that’s it, that’s what he was doing: making us drink so much in the patio of Maggie Brown’s and remember how day it was, how day and bright, how happy the lighting was, how we sat on the concrete staring through eggs and space, sharing cigarettes and smiling at everything, everything, and we stopped believing, for once, for once we stopped believing in anything and how light we felt, how everything was floating, how we made it to the bathroom laughing, how we laughed at ourselves crying we could have laughed straight into dying we could have died straight into flying we could have flown straight into the bar television, but Giorgios, Giorgios kept us on the ground, he was piloting the day that day, he was the drunkest of all and I was probably bleeding somewhere from my cunt or thumb; I must have been biting myself without knowing, must have been praying for the fun of it far in me, and we drank so much we started praying, we prayed so hard those fucking angels came and we laughed so sweetly we, we went to peeing from all the angels stuffed in our shot glasses that Giorgios kept buying, and oh how we kept forgetting we had cell phones that kept ringing for we couldn’t hear a damn thing or see a damn thing while puking and climbing the fire escape thing and someone came into the apartment: It was Joe from days of painting, it was Joe after weeks of texting, it was a good thing Joe came by while we sat on the couch hair flipping, we needed some food after hours of shit talking, we needed more quiet after doors of knock knocking, and what happened to Giorgios, poor poor thing, he got locked outside for hours watching kids double-dutching and we missed all his calls with our phones vibrating, because where were you, where were you in the bedroom fingering and loving, fingering and hugging, and I paced around the apartment looking for something to eat, not wanting another pizza, not wanting to watch a movie, for we had it all right there, that Sunday had it all there while we did nothing nothing nothing.


I pushed the bold button to make the character move
Something shuffled overseas and shuffled hard

a body cycled forward successfully

Sonic the Hedgehog,
a blue tumbling punctum

where do I live what should I love who is with me

Or its enough to say all uncertain hearts are hedgehogs
moving recklessly outside the body

Who is the Patron Saint of video games—
of the invisible wall; left arrow / right arrow

Silvery navigation will have its way—
while memory slides from either end
in a frame that feels unforgiving.


Feliz Lucia Molina has appeared in Dark Sky Magazine, Shampoo, Titular Journal, Corrugated Press: Digital Hamper, and elsewhere. She sometimes contributes to Continent.journal and Huffington Post. She holds an MFA in Literary Arts (poetry) from Brown University and is a MacDowell Colony fellow for poetry. She lives in California with a lion head rabbit.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Sunday, November 20th, 2011.