Thom Garzone

Cadence

Her scent guides me,

smothers me in sweet blossoms stirring

below my senses struggling

to rise in erotic emotions.

A hint of nicotine I detect on her breath

as she brushes her lips to my neck

and whispers faint words, then

purrs and blows in my ear.

She grinds her hips up against my own,

shakes her cheeks, slapping them

like a naughty child.

I inhale her bouquet, a blend

of body lotion and talcum,

same as the other dancers.

I see her talk to the DJ,

gesturing with her finger as to

my limp penis;

yet I still feel passion for her,

as the other dancers.

I toss them five dollars at a time

just to inhale their aroma

engulfed in desire

bordering helpless fantasy

in myriads of enchantment.

Her torso is built like a flat surface,

yet geometrically perfect to me.

She delivers me to mountains of

twilight dancing formless

in the shades of my brain

I wish I can press my lips to her smooth body,

though Cadence is only a dream,

a dream who dances on a lighted stage

leading me by the hand to a private booth.

Her long legs and firm back

wants to rest upon my lap.

My friend and I see her outside the club,

puffing a cigarette.  Yet in my mind

I sense her ambrosia emitting from her pores

through the rough night that follows.

I shut my eyes remembering her perfumed body

and feel erect with joy

to chant an iridescent canto

over her vicious energy.

September

To cross this desert of time and fuse mountains of my mind with the curved hips

of a young woman called Cadence, serenading her as the song she is named, and

kiss her cool skin drawn with symbols signaling my dreams to lie dormant on a rejected

landscape, helpless for two more decades, so I can ponder further among lonesome ranges,

empty fields in the evolution of my soul; perhaps, to alter it all, yet when it comes down to

reality, I drown in morose moments at a Nevada brothel, watching the whores line up but

only to desire in raising enough money next chance I'm in town, so that I can afford sex.

Afford sex! Why is there a price on love? Can I use my credit card? Cadence dances

to 1940s jazz. I struggle to get erect, but suffer from 21 years of being sexually inactive,

21 years of nerves building like an earthquake that never leveled Northern Nevada. My friend

and I drive through the town of Wells. Vacant windows gaze at our lost fate, eternal eyes of

desolation. Boarded-up stores, a period to another era. Inside our motel room we listen to tractor trailers rumble, winds strike meager structures of Wells, dust swirling, leaving me, Jason, and an old Clint Eastwood Western on cable TV. Outside trucks brake and squeal with steel, also seeming to halt my sex life and I wallow in low wages, and disgusted with my life, I doubt my future will ever be

filled with love. Around me, the world is mundane yet in harmony with certainty, creating motions

that makes fools of us all

Song Girl

Lie down on me like a tapestry

enveloping the languid dream

I have of you

of your hair that presses against my chest

yet just a snapshot in my mind

flickering with the spreading of your limbs

across a shore,

on sand grains like the color of your hair

Look into my soul

with such iridescent eyes

to desire and glow with an image,

even though now serving coffee behind a counter

charging, and taxing me with glory

Sing along with the keys of my will,

soothe me of my transgressions

and fill me with this compassion

from the magic of your singular presence