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Feliz Lucia Molina was born and raised in a Filipino diaspora in the San Fernando Valley, California. She holds a BA in Writing & Literature and minor in Religious Studies from Naropa University, and graduate degrees in Literary Arts from Brown University, Clinical Social Work from The University of Chicago, and a PhD (ABD) at the European Graduate School in Switzerland. She taught poetry at Brown, UC San Diego, and Cal State San Marcos, and is the recipient of poetry fellowships from Kundiman and MacDowell.


Her books include Undercastle (Magic Helicopter Press), The Wes Letters (Outpost19), and Roulette from Make Now Books. Her chapbooks are An Essay Of Things About Someone I First Met and Spent Time With For One Day in Tokyo (Magic Helicopter Press) and Crystal Marys (Scary Topiary Press). She is working on various poetry manuscripts and gathering notes and memories about growing up in board and care facilities.


Her writing appears in and has been supported by PEN America, The Poetry Foundation, Guggenheim Museum, Open Space at SF MOMA, Fence Magazine, Jacket2, among others, and was previous poetry editor for Los Angeles Review of Books and co-organizer of Desert Poetry. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and daughter and animals and works as a psychotherapist in private practice.


Read five poems from Feliz below. Originally featured online in Scrambler (March 2013). These poems are in her book Undercastle (Magic Helicopter Press).



Hoodrat on a Greyhound



As we rode through the border I pressed softly

to make a friend appear though where does the country end

if not when you blink. Ghosts in the haze

of identity formations how else can I keep track of you

in LA do you like it more than once

were they finger fucking instead

every girl is that sorrowful hoodrat Veronica

weeping into the Shroud of Turin

with a dirty American Apparel t-shirt



The Movie



Movies employed our legs

we bought tickets to watch ourselves through actors


A warm and silvery masturbation—

your image on top of your image


I kept watching strangers in search of you

asking the difference between anyone



Paris, Las Vegas



In this city young-girls hold hands with ghosts of flâneurs

Their ethos combined, their bodies becoming-desiring machines I’ve no money for roulette, only generative tourettes

searching for outlets to produce narratives

cuz’ I’ll make you crazy I’ll make you crazy

the ownership of bodies is not exhausting

I’ve compassion for her ass and breasts

we are not meat, we are lovers infinitely subtractable

because of our fathers and mothers

so what if they say you’re a holder of commodities

they have no love for you, but I do I do

Young girl get out of my mind

my love for you is way out of line

better run girl you’re much too young girl

cuz’ of modern conditions of production

love has never been more possible



Indigenous Strip Mall American



Flipping hair and tails like it’s the truth

should we get up and rent a movie

should we be productive

spend little money


Pointless truths, soft

and rubbery, a fuck it rubbery


We stood famous as front yard flamingos

in a foreclosed Blockbuster, we could have died

from too much Pamela Anderson

we would have been alright with that


because she’s so many things

made of all that beach and silver screen



Feast Day of St. John of the Cross



Clothes cycle and spin below breaking news

of an elementary school shooting

on the phone my mother says

why don’t you have your own poetry tv show?

& I say mom you can’t just have your own tv show

it takes a lot of hard work

you have to know a lot of things

I don’t know a lot of things

like how to have a tv show

how do you even begin to have a tv show?

& she says you know how to use the computer, what about the youtube?

& I say

what

the

fuck

are

you

talking

about

why don’t you and dad move to Manila

social security will go far there

Is there a place in the world we don’t have to risk

being alive

being in kindergarten

being virtualess

could we do laundry in Luzon hot springs and laugh compassionately at all the

American horror

& the president glows above beautiful bottles of

cheer tide and snuggle

wipes his face and says no set of laws can prevent

evil in this world

& I say mom what’s a mass shooting

and why do they happen all the time

& she says today is the feast day of St. John of the Cross

you should bring money to offer a candle after Mass

& I say I

have

no

more

quarters

my clothes are still wet

and the parking meter

is running out of time



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