Sunday:
I’m driving through the south-east desert of Oregon after a weekend in Carson City.
I have the windows rolled down,
The stereo turned up and I’m remembering
One of the happiest days of my life.
A tear rolls down my cheek.
I said I wasn’t going to let this happen,
It was only a fantasy,
It wasn’t real.

Monday:
I am driving to work.
I remember Keya talking about her regulars in Oklahoma
When she worked at a massage parlor.
They had asked her what they were going to do when she was gone.
She told me she wanted me to come back to Carson City
And be one of her regulars.
She said she was sorry that I couldn’t stay longer.
I sat in the parlor with her and the other girls for an hour
Before I kissed her and said,
“Take care of your self.”
I left.
I was the happiest man in the world.
This damn stereo in my car is never loud enough.
Tears well up in the bottoms of my sunglasses,
They run down my cheeks,
It was only a fantasy,
It wasn’t real.

Tuesday night:
I wake up in the middle of the night and I see Keya,
It was only a dream.
I remember her looking into my eyes and saying they were a pretty shade of green.
I remember her reaching over and removing a piece of fuzz from my hair.
I remember every little thing about her.
Sitting in my living room at 2:00 am I turn on the TV because I can’t sleep.
PBS is running a Ken Burns Jazz program.
I hear Charlie Parker, Thelonious Monk, Miles Davis, Dizzy Gillespie
Playing the greatest jazz songs of all time.
The songs are swirling in my head with visions of Keya.
I’m holding her in my arms and kissing her ear
When she lets out a giggle.
I am actually lying on my living room carpet,
Tears streaming down my face,
Sighs of hopelessness,
Scream in silence.
I am Sobbing like a big baby,
Holding my knees up to my chest,
Saying
“It’s only a fantasy.
It’s not real.”
I cannot see her again.
I love her.
I cannot be in love with her.
It’s only a fantasy.
It’s not real.


Theodore Haze
June 18, 2003

"Theo's Brothel Poems"