Brian Kenneth Swain

and not a moment too soon, let me tell you. The trenchant and tremulous words and images that gave so freely of themselves to be a part of this poem had all begun to give up hope, locked away for so long, festering, growing old in the bottom of some dark dank drawer, wedged in between the poet’s 1986 federal tax return and the paperwork that came with that Gremlin he thought was such a great idea.   It is a glorious thing to at long last bask in the sunshine of relevance, to be read, heard, debated, discussed. Even to be hated and vilified is to at least be regarded as something worthy of opinion. And, really, that’s all any poem asks.   Read me, hear me, consider me, give me my due. Judge me if you must. But please ...

The 6:00 a.m. alarm tears through Drew Benton’s dream, and he sits up in bed, heart racing, unsurprised to find himself alone. Kelly has always been a hard-core morning person, typically out of bed and dealing with the kids at least an hour before her husband’s alarm goes off. More often than not, she’s gotten in a full workout and eaten breakfast before undertaking the daily drama of getting their son and daughter up and ready for school. But this morning is different. When Drew, yawning loudly, walks out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, instead of a family of three seated at the breakfast table, there is only his daughter Kimberley, quietly eating a bowl of cereal and watching a cartoon on the small kitchen television. She ...

Growing up, there was this little creek down back of our house. Nothing special, maybe a foot wide, a few inches deep, but, good lord, I can’t tell you the countless hours I spent down there enwrapped in the throes of adolescent fantasy. The story, though, was pretty much always the same. I’d collect armloads of branches and buckets of mud, and I’d dam up the creek and then wait hours for the water to rise up behind my crude earthworks. In the meantime, I’d construct a small town at the base of the dam using Lincoln Logs, Tinker Toys, and plastic model train buildings. Olive green army men typically populated this unfortunate village, unmoving plastic figures who had not the slightest inkling of the grim fate that awaited them. ...

“John, do you ever feel like there’s something just a little off about life?” He sat, chair pulled up close to the kitchen table, spooning Frosted Flakes into his mouth while a cigarette smoldered in the ashtray adjacent his left elbow. January wind howled just beyond the single small kitchen window. The apartment was cold, but John sat uncaring, clad in a terry bathrobe the purple hue of which matched his cereal bowl with uncanny fidelity. My roommate was a big fan of purple. “Well, let’s ponder that question for a moment, shall we, Matthew? I spent eleven years in college and grad school obtaining a high honors Ph.D. from what is widely reputed to be one of this nation’s finest universities, following which I festered ...

Deep in the throes of moonless sleep, the beat of cicadas syncopate with the sough of midnight wind. From far down in the well of my dream vibrations rise up, and, like anyone, I weave those first few tremors into the fabric of my dream story. It is only the sway of a lover’s dance, the tremble of a restless herd.   But it is a sound that awakens me at last, the shriek of my brother’s daughter. She who sleeps so fitfully on even the most silent night, she of the night terrors, who this night saves us all with her waking cry. It is the night her oft imagined horrors are become real, for this is no dream.   It is our mountain sprung to life, dancing, cavorting, tossing us about like playthings. By the mercy of Allah, ...

In which are revealed fragments of a written account of the incident, retrieved at some peril from an operative within the clandestine service   Detective Hidalgo was called to the scene on a bleak ______ing evening, the thirteenth of ______. One witness declared that as far as he knew the two men were engaged in a _____ of pure _____. Having heard this, Hidalgo then set to the task of determining motive, which led him to ask Mrs. _______ if perchance she had seen from her room any clear indications of ______ or of _______. She denied this but flashed him a smile that suggested his thoughts on the case were soon to be tested. Which proved all too true, for that very same night the two suspects were seen neath the _______ Station ...

Advance yourself, they said, for soon your tiresome but passably lucrative station in this life will be rent from you by the automaton. Raise yourself up or be tossed aside; the choice is yours. But what they didn’t tell us (for surely, who did not already know?) was that the race goes ultimately to the swift and that man is a fragile being evolving at a scarcely discernible pace, whereas the machines change and evolve seemingly at light speed, and do so, may God have mercy on us, through the designs of man himself. It was a race we were doomed never to win, a prize the pursuit of which could only exhaust us and render us yet riper for our eventual, inescapable defeat. It began harmlessly enough. They were conceived and constructed ...

The doorbell to 182 Meadow View Drive rings once, twice, and the repairman from Pathways Cable Company quickly checks his handheld display to make sure he has the correct address. It is late on a Tuesday morning, muggier than usual, and a thin bead of sweat swells between the man’s eyebrows. He instinctively shifts his gaze for a moment to the houses on his left and his right, then feigns another glance at the device in his hand. It shows nothing at all and he reaches again for the doorbell button to make one final attempt. But before his finger can reach the button, there comes a rustling on the other side of the door, a scarcely discernible curse, and the door opens to reveal a woman, middle aged, not bad looking, and slightly confused ...

The tiniest of aviators, scarcely more than a bumblebee, darts fast now and frantic between the beams and oil cans, the stacks of boxes, racks of tools.   The double garage door gapes open against the day, the sun and sky and trees beckon, there in plain view.   Yet the tiny creature lights on an overhead beam above my head. Stares down imploring, tiny iridescent chest rises and falls with the exhaustion of fear.   Only then, as I draw a ladder up underneath, there shines acceptance in those pin prick eyes, and understanding.   I raise a gentle hand and he, tiny and defenseless, taught by nature to fear everything, lights in my palm, his body no bigger than my thumb, heart beating like a blur against my skin.   I ...

The sun had only just begun its journey into afternoon as two men stood talking in the sort of jovial tones not commonly heard in the vicinity of Burns and Sons. One of the two was Ken Burns Sr. himself, proprietor of the town’s only funeral home. He had just entered his sixth decade and cut an impressive figure—tall, heavy set, dressed in the sort of dark heavy suit traditional to his profession. His interlocutor, Buster Craig, was half his size and more than twice his age. It was a curious pairing, the town’s sole mortician conversing so easily with its oldest resident, the sort of thing a passerby might take note of and likely remark upon later to family members or coworkers. “Saw old Buster chatting it up with Ken Burns this ...