Allen Jones could not believe his luck.
He'd asked this woman Liza out for weeks.
All he really wanted was to fuck.
Now, first date, she sat there in his truck,
glancing in the mirror at her cheeks,
while he bought beer, amazed at his good luck.
About three miles away from home, a buck
jumped in the road. Allen slammed his brakes
and swore in silence, "Goddamn deer, you fuck
this night up, I swear I'll shoot you dead." The truck
began to spin. Allen woke to aches
all through his upper body. "What hard luck,"
he heard a strange voice say. Then someone stuck
him with a needle. He'd caused two other wrecks,
broken his jaw and ribs. He'd hoped to fuck;
instead, he lay in bed and had to suck
things through a straw for four depressing weeks.
He hadn't ever heard of such bad luck.
All he'd really wanted was to fuck.
--Beth Gylys
Circle
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Wondering what UCLA alumni poets are up to? Check out Circle Poetry
Journal, a published-by-referral-only journal, coming out Fall 2013. First
Cycle includ...
11 years ago
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