I wish this were surrealism
Judaism does not regard Daniel as a prophet;
Christianity regards Daniel as a prophet.
All the Daniels blur into one
Daniel – I date two at once,
still quite unfulfilled,
but they don’t know.
They call me the wrong name, goodnight.
They drink too much to notice when I leave;
they ruin New Year’s Eve
and that is how it feels it’s always been.
Even the biblical Daniel makes an appearance
in my dreams, but I shoo shoo him away
from my last safe haven from the boys who
slit their arm so wide open on a broken hurricane glass
that I sit in at least three pints of blood
before the paramedics arrive
and I watch them through the porch planks.
I even know a Daniel who I didn’t sleep with, once;
he was my student and read science fiction novels.
I wondered if he knew of my history
with his people – or if my dirty past
of Daniel mistakes was an interior
documentation, all a self-help book
waiting to be written in the half lit apartment
where I live, alone.