The man

Eric Swedberg

The most interesting man and attractive man belongs to the last hour of praiseless day.

There, it is with the prettiest intentions that everything is possibly taken.

And to move too fast is to not be there, to not know it, see or hear it at most.

The last man of the day will not be there the same tomorrow.

It may be many days later that he is, millions perhaps.

		   	          II

The ghosts of radiator smoke let their odd smells loose, his vehicle hugged a tree.

He laughed still, blank, empty, full, hazy, tight, and tired.

The accident as not such a thing but a test, for fun, for boldness, for nothing.

Later, an hour, he snapped through so tough and dark, for sure it was better than he was.

He found himself between death and life, choosing night or day or full or not,

in the middle of rhythm or dungeons, spectrums or solid blocks, new or dust.

He had crashed through the barricade from which all of his spite seeped.

It held his emotions and goals so straight and expected.

Simplicity came with every next bit of laughter.
He admired the tree and its weep while the real ghosts of hot and writhing collision crept

up its trunk, evil and disappointed that he had found them, finally.