BACKGROUND NOISE

Literary Mixtape by Andrew Gordon Rogers

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(WINTER) SONG

Demeter and her woes have left this day unopened, laying

a fresh white blanket of snow covering the earth:

the promise of our world beneath the willow’s fingers.

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(Blue) Song

And then the blues brings you back, drags you back, really, your hands and knees, torn and bloody, your nails to the bone.   You give up and stay for days, weeks even, pent up in the blue, until the thing releases its hold and the sun shines and the false asters begin to bloom, where the yellow becomes green, forming a sea of vivid things, with trees dark and full in the distance, silent, limbs waving with the wind, and you again: crawling back towards the rest of the living.

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from (River) Song

Here is the swirl; here the white water through the stone; here is the thrown stone in the undertow, curled beneath

the foam, the shadows of the elders being thrown above, blowing, the arbors holding, gripping at the moving air, water, earth; here is

the push through the corridors carved by motions, before the motions, after the run of the thousand ripples: the ups, downs, movement;

the loosestrife blowing in the shadow and out, heavily rooted, overlooking the ripples – bent, irregular – jealous of the nomadic.

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I threw my wallet onto the counter and collapsed onto the couch and pictured Sam pushing her short hair behind her ear, her deep blue eyes smiling at me from someplace beyond any place I knew.

Something in the Way, East Bay Review No. 11

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The breaks of the train began squealing just as the dog looked up one last time and we, Charlie and I both, turned our heads to look away. 

"Something in the Way"

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Something in the Way by Andrew Gordon Rogers

Underneath the bridge The tarp has sprung a leak And the animals I’ve trapped Have all become my pets And I’m living off of grass And the drippings from the ceiling — Kurt …

I have to send a big thank you to everyone at The East Bay Review for putting my story out into the world. Please read it and all the other inventive literature the journal has to offer. I hope that you enjoy it and don’t forget to share. :) 

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from Stations.

We were broken down and you, with  elegance in disregard, thumbed the side of the road; I was wrapping myself in doubt: that old negative suspicion of self and humanity, all consuming in my hands, my head and feet. We waited before the row of man-made trees, the verdant zip against the ground guarding the fields and two stray cows munching the native grass beyond the line: binary elements of the same existence, still and waiting, never looking up at one another, only chewing, whipping insects with their tails under the waning sun. 

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from Something in the Way

It was on the other side of town; I hadn’t been there since I was a child. When I was younger, the park was in decent shape, before the highway construction had scared away the wildlife and before the City, underfunded and preoccupied, had let it go to neglect.

As we drove into Chamber Park, Charlie reached over and turned the dial on the radio then leaned opposite and rolled down his window. I looked at the playground equipment. The jungle-gyms and swing sets were faded into a chalky baby blue, paint peeling away from the metal, impaired by streaks of brown and flecks of rust. Most of the lights around the park were burnt out and spiderwebs made their way across the grey trees. The pleasant silence that I remember had evolved, too. The new highway on the south end of the property produced the purring sound of cars fading in and out, echoing in the overgrown forest beyond the playgrounds and baseball fields.

“You hear those cars,” Charlie asked. “That’s where we’re painting.”

“Wait,” I coughed. “What?”

Charlie just smiled. He turned into the parking lot beyond the last dusty field. We pulled into the innermost parking spot in the lot, under a broken streetlamp. Charlie turned off the car, opened his door and got out. I followed him. We got our things out of the backseat. Charlie pulled out a pack of smokes from his sweatshirt pocket and lit a cigarette. He took a few drags and passed it over to me.

“So, where to?”

“Through here,” he said, pointing toward the broken woods in front of us.

I took a long puff from the cigarette. It burnt my throat and I handed the smoke back to Charlie. We walked towards the trees with a sharp crescent moon shining above us, a slight breeze pushed against our backs. Charlie stepped into the trees and I followed him in. Leaves crunched beneath our feet, the fattest maple leaves tossed alongside their slim cousins; cicadas squealed and chirped all around us. The moon cast shadows at random across the vertical lines of trees and the floor below was dark and moonless. Charlie threw down his cigarette, the ash glowing red on the black forest floor. I stomped it out; I broke a large branch and it whipped me in the calf. I reached down to rub it and then continued on.

Charlie stopped before me and reached back and held up his hand. We were to the end of the treeline, where the Chamber Street crosses over the highway. Beneath the overpass, on our side of the highway, there was a hill that lead up to a large cement structural wall, an oversized triangle of concrete above the embankment. From the highway, the concrete wall was visible at the edge in its entirety, only the arbors of smaller oak and cedar trees giving it some cover. Above the wall, steel I-beams reached across the highway to the other side; above that, a brushed metal guardrail glowed under the moonlight.

We bent down and unzipped our packs. We waited and scanned the highway in front of us. We watched the headlights of two cars come towards us and then move on. I looked at Charlie; his eyes were wide and focused on the wall. He pulled his hood over his head. I glanced back to the highway. My hands were wet and my mind full of everything and nothing at all. The highway went dark.

“You think it’s safe?”

“Safe as it’s gonna be,” he mumbled.

He pulled out a can of paint and yanked off the cap, the pop echoing in the woods. He sprayed a pile of leaves next to him. The pile slowly turned darker and glossy. He looked at me with a crooked smile, his eyes still wide, and jumped out onto the open hill. My heartbeat moved to my ears. The smell of new paint.

I grabbed a can of green paint and went out to the wall. Crouched hunters, delicate in our stepping and in our work, we started spraying the wall. I finished a letter and looked over at Charlie; he studied his can, puzzled. There wasn’t a dot of paint on the wall in front of him. I looked back at my letter and heard the hissing sound of spray finally coming from Charlie’s side. I shook my can and began to spray my next letter. A car’s headlights shined on the bottom of the bridge and we both looked backwards and crouched down further, doing our best to resemble boulders. The car continued forward, the lights growing above us, the roar of its engine unsetting the quiet of the overpass. We held still as it drove through and under the bridge and onward down the highway.

We returned our focus. Another car passed beneath us, we paused and then went back to our labor. The cloud of overspray grew up over the edge of the bridge. The hooded figure next to me shook his can, sprayed, stepped back, resumed painting again. I turned my head to look down the highway. Another car’s headlamps shined on the black pavement below, made its way toward us. I held still again, staring at the paint dripping on the wall. The headlights seemed to last longer than the ones before, but I continued to wait.

The lights did not pass like the others. I heard the car slow down behind me. The sound of tires on gravel. Then there was the sharp sound: a horn, a siren. Charlie and I both looked back as a spotlight came on and lit up the ground beside us. Before the bright beam hit us, we were gone.

“Goddamnit,” I heard through the sound of our stomping feet. We tore through a gathering of trees. I thought, drop to the darkness. No, climb a tree.

I kept running; the woods were not thick enough to hide us. I pushed on, my hands in front of me, ducking under the limbs. I kept on, slashing through the leaves and sticks under my legs; my shoes rolled over mounds of dirt, over other things. I tried to follow Charlie through the slivers of light coming through the trees. Images blurred, moved behind me as I passed. Panic smelling of mud.

We darted out of the dark forest cover into the parking lot. We pounded the pavement, past the tattered baseball field, into the playground area. We heard a car coming around the bending road. I panicked, ran towards the only hiding place I saw. Charlie ran straight. I threw myself into a line a bushes past the jungle-gym. I crouched and crawled halfway underneath the shrubs. The needles poked my legs, my back. My breath was heavy, my heart beating above my shirt. Sweat dripped into my eyes. I found a spot that I could look through the brush. My shoes were soggy and the bottom of my jeans soaked. I heard my breath, my pumping heart and the sound of slow-moving water in the creek behind me.

A car pulled into the parking lot in front of me; it turned in and neared Charlie’s car. Headlights came on. Blue and red lights swirled in the dark sky. The spotlight clicked on and lit up the entire lot. I could hear the static voice from the police radio.

I held my breath; I cursed myself. The spotlight drifted near me; it shined over me. The leaves beneath me still crunched without motion. The bright light continued to move and I let myself breathe, letting the air leak in and out, slow and steady. I did not move; I did not look up. Red, blue, white illuminated the ground. Tires popped and turned and the engine purred and the car continued onward. The rubber rolled on the gravel and the car turned out of the lot. I remained still; my lungs pushed against the ground. The engine dissipated, echoed in the playground, the baseball fields, quieter every second.

I waited several minutes. I stared at an unfinished spiderweb in front of me, a spider unmoved in its corner. Sweat dripped from my brow, my chest and armpits; my feet were heavy and wet. I closed my eyes, calmed my heartbeat. Questions and doubt swirled inside. The doubt and the questions of every sin resurfaced, a rush to the head of all the bad decisions.

The urge to move became too hard to hold. I reached for my cell phone, contemplating whether or not to call Charlie. It was not in my pocket. I sat up and padded myself down. No lump; no phone. I looked over to Charlie’s car and then around the park in front of me. The park was mostly dark and quiet; the highway was soundless. Two swings on the playground, light and bare, made slight movements with the wind.

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from These Little Things

James walked into a cafe on a corner downtown, its brick facade gray and cracked. The tables around the edges of the restaurant were full with older couples in new clothes and young girls in vintage sweaters. His brother was across the way, sitting at a small, round table against the window. He held an espresso cup on his finger and looked down at a newspaper. He wore a polo shirt, striped red and white, and his hair had grown longer since the last time James had seen him. Neither one of them looked up until James had arrived at the table; he stood aside his brother, waiting for him to notice. He looked up.

“Holy shit,” said John. “Look who it is.”

“Hey, John.”

John pushed his chair back, put down his miniature mug and stood up. He put his hand out, they shook hands and hugged briefly.

“Good to see you. Thanks for meeting me.”

“I had nothing else going on, so.” James looked around the shop.

“Can I get you anything? Coffee? A muffin or something?”

“I don’t really have any money.”

“That’s cool. I got it.”

“Then I’ll take both.”

John smiled, James did not. He continued to look around the cafe as his brother got up and went to the counter. The lights in the shop were dim and the windows dark and all of the paintings hanging on the walls were red and purple. Two girls across the way giggled while looking through a pile of photographs. John returned with a coffee and a doughnut.

“They were out of the good muffins,” he said.

“That works. Thank you.”

James removed the lid of his cup, ripped open two packets of sugar and poured them into the dark, steaming coffee. He looked around for a spoon, John handed one to him. He stirred a few times then took a drink and placed his cup back on the table.

“So, how’s life in the big house?”

John rolled his eyes, shook his head.

“It’s good. I’ve been trying to get you to come over, you know. You’re welcome anytime.”

“Right. Thanks but no thanks.”

James ripped his doughnut in half and stuffed a big chunk in his mouth.

“Where are you staying?”

“I got a place,” James said, his mouth full.

“Where at?

“Not too far from here. A friend of mine hooked me up.”

“Well I’m glad you’re doing alright.”

John took a sip from his coffee. He stared out the window. After a long silence, John reached down and pulled a long, thin box from his bag on the floor. He laid it on the table in front of them.

“I’m guessing you know what this is.”

“If it is what I think it is, then yeah, I do.”

“I told Dad I’d give it back to you. Well, he told me to give it back to you.”

James looked around the shop. He caught his reflection in the window. His cheeks and the top of his head were red, the rest of him white, almost grey.

“I don’t want it,” he replied. He took a drink.

“Well it's not mine to have.”

“Dad gave you everything else, why not keep that too.”

“I don’t want it, James. It belongs to you.” John pushed it towards James. “You should have that on display somewhere, wherever you are.”

“It’s a sham, man. It looks more important than it actually is.”

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(Spring) Song

In the womb we are cells, fighting to live, multiplying like leaves on a sapling: balls of energy, inside & out, consuming & pushing

in opposite motions: a crackling fire drawing in the air, blowing out warmth: forming new parts for all to see, among the other creatures. 

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from The New Rothko

The long museum lawn was littered with couples and groups of young people in between bronze shapeless sculptures and the giant white and orange shuttlecocks; the trees around the yard had just begun to change into their yellows and reds.

I sat on a bench outside and finished my lunch, packed my leftover potato chips into my satchel. I drank the rest of my Coke before getting up and walking inside. 

Inside the museum, I glided through the dark halls of the antiquities wing on the first floor, found the stairs and took them up to the contemporary end. I stopped along the way to look at the giant marble Buddha, surrounded by little knick-knacks at his feet. Once upstairs, I slowed; I took in the open space, all of the white between the pieces. I stood in front of several large collages, looking at all the smaller elements that created them. I went into a room full of black and white photos of children from the Depression. I went through, staring at each picture on one wall, then entered a large open area, walking down a ramp lined with tall abstracts: de Kooning, Kline, Newman, etc. 

The ceiling was 20 feet above me and the sound of my footsteps could have been heard outside. One other couple walked in front of me, staring all around, their footsteps and mine making a tap, tap, tap-tap rhythm.

I almost missed the painting I was looking for. The seven-foot-tall dark red and blue Rothko canvas hung against the back wall of the room at the bottom of the ramp. Around the bottom of the painting, on the icy concrete floor, an ankle-high, white railing squared-in the work, urging patrons not to touch. I stood back a foot from the railing; I looked at the bottom of the work and moved my eyes upward, dark to light blue to maroon.

Keep reading

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from (Lunch) Song

This house is a paper bag, this thought

wrapped up inside it, making a puddle in

the corner –  darker, getting darker –

damning the points into knobs for knees.

This room is drowning in the flood of the meadow,

sprawl of tall grass poking its head out

from the brown reflection; paper torn floating

into the walls, getting stuck among the reeds.

Wrinkled time, black with wetness,

no longer crippling; this thing falling apart and dripping:

to become something else, all and all, etcetera.

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Half life, all right.

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from These Little Things

The wind outside was getting colder and a robin had dropped dead onto the front porch. Hannah stepped outside and stopped to stare at it, her eyes bound to the cold figure ragged on the concrete. The air smelled of rain.

“Dad,” she called through the screen door. “Come see the birdy.”

John appeared at the door. Hannah still stared down.

"Is it moving, Hannah?"

"I don’t think so."

She bent over to pick up a stick and her arms shook as she broke the stick in half.

"Don’t poke it."

"I wasn’t. But why not?"

"It’s just not polite."

She turned around and stared at her father, an uneven brow.

"If something dies, are we supposed to be polite to it?"

"Just don’t touch it, okay?"

"Okay, Dad."

John went inside and snapped several paper towels from the roll next to the kitchen sink. He returned to the front porch where Hannah still stood examining the bird. John gently plucked the robin from the stoop and turned it over, cupping it in the paper towels, the underside of the animal still flat like the cement where it had laid. John moved towards the side of the house, toward the large trashcan. He opened the lid, lightly balancing the bird in the other hand.

"Dad?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Is it polite to throw animals in the trash?"

John stopped, gawked at his daughter.

"Well…more kind than leaving it on the ground, right?"

"I guess."

"Do you have a better idea?"

Hannah thought for a moment, her face squeezed together like her mother. She turned without a word and disappeared around the corner. John waited. When she jumped back from the front of the house, she carried in her hand a pink plastic spade. She stopped a foot from her father and held it up towards his face.

"I see," said John. "Where to, undertaker?"

She stretched her arm out straight, pointing toward the backyard. John followed her and opened the gate with his free hand and let his daughter slide underneath him with the dead thing in his other hand. 

The air was cold but the sun was shooting small rays of light across the green grass where the clouds allowed it through their grayness. Hannah was wearing her pink raincoat and it creaked and rubbed as she stomped her way towards the back of the yard. Once they arrived at the swingset on the left-hand side of the plot’s backend, Hannah stopped and took inventory of the possibilities.

“If we bury it by the swingset, it will get stepped on a lot,” she said. “How about…here.”

She had taken five steps away from the playground equipment and she kicked away a small pile of leaves. The grass was brown and matted where the leaves had laid. She kneeled down and then stared up at John, awaiting something.

“It looks like a fine place to be buried, my dear.”

“I’ve seen lots of birds back here, Daddy. Probably his friends. They can visit.”

“That’s important,” John mumbled.

She stuck her shovel into the soil. She lacked the physical power to dig into the ground; she only lifted the topsoil from the spot and tossed it aside. She lifted both hands above her head and drove the spade into the dirt; it spiked into the ground but when she pulled it out, only a few clogs came pouring from the shovel’s head. John watched her as long as he could before putting his hand out and offering to help. She was hesitant but allowed it. John set the bird down behind him and dug a hole, approximately a square foot in size and just as deep. Hannah sat beside him and ran her fingers over the pile of dirt he had created in front of her. He stood up, his knees tight and sore as he stood. He leaned backwards to stretch out his legs and back.

“So,” he looked at his daughter. “Should I do the honors?”

She stared up at him. She shrugged her shoulders.  John turned around and bent down to pick up the bird. He still had the paper towels underneath the creature and he picked up the paper at the corners and carefully moved it close to the hole and dumped it in. He picked up the spade again.

“Do you want to say something?”

Again, Hannah stared at her father.

“That’s what people normally do at funerals, see.”

“People say something nice?”

“Yes, something nice.”

“What if the person was mean?”

“Well, then,” John smirked. “Still have to say something nice, I guess.”

“I’ve never done that before. You can do it, Dad.”

Hannah pushed herself up from the ground and brushed off her hands on the front of her pants. John scratched his chin. They both stared down at the bird. John noticed the bird’s feet and, as he looked closer, saw that the bird only had two talons on one foot. A gust of wind blew the dirt on the ground off of the pile. The cold air was becoming more apparent and John could feel it climbing into his shirt.

“This bird,” he began. “This bird was a great flier.”

John thought and Hannah looked up at her father.

“He helped build many a nest and was always kind to his family and friends.”

John dug the shovel into the loose soil pile beside the grave.

“He will be missed by the entire animal kingdom.”

John poured the first bit of dirt on the bird. He had a smile on his face when he looked back down at Hannah. She did not find it amusing and John quickly changed his appearance because he knew she was right. John again stuck the spade into the dirt pile and placed the load onto the bird and its grave. He continued to do this until the hole was full and the bird was no longer visible. Once the dirt was completely returned to its position, or as much as possible, he patted the dirt down with the back of the shovel as he had seen done.

“Dad?” asked Hannah.

“Yes, Hannie Fannie?”

“Can we go play with the chalk in front?”

“Sure, kiddo. But just until Mommy gets home, okay?”

“Okay, deal.”

John grabbed the paper towel from off the ground, crumpled it up, and they began to walk back towards the front yard. Before they got the wooden fence, Hannah turned around and strutted back towards the burial site.

“What are you doing, girl?”

Hannah stopped and turned around. Her body shivered, a quick chill.

“I decided I want to say something to the birdy.”

“Okay,” John replied. “Go on.”

Hannah walked back to the site and John waited by the gate. His experience told him that she probably didn’t want him to hear what she was going to say. He listen closely but stayed at the gate. Just as Hannah reached the bird’s new home, the wind died down and the leaves stopped rustling.

“I love you, bird,” she said.

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Something in the Way

We missed it when we heard the whistle and climbed up, but from the hilltop we saw the train coming towards it. The beacon of light from the engine shined brighter and brighter as it neared with deep darkness behind it and an elbow of forest blocking the train’s end; the lights of the mall were in the distance, over the other side of the tracks, beyond where the end would be. The lights of the town glimmered past that with scattered stars like reflections above them. I stared back down at the yard and the animal. Charlie ducked down behind a shrub to the left of me.

“Should we do something?” I asked him. The horn blew as I asked, he lifted his hands to his ears.

He mouthed, I can’t hear you.

Once the horn stopped, I asked again.

“Should we do anything?”

Charlie shrugged. “What can we do?”

I searched around for a rock. The bluff was smooth but some gravel had been driven up from the train yard. I plucked the largest stone I could find from the ground, about the size of a golf ball. The bottom of it was muddied; it adhered to my fingers as I took aim at the track.

“What are you doing, man?”

I chucked it. I missed the animal, but scared it. It moved down the track, but still stood between the rails, chewing on the bone it had been working on since we noticed it. The train sounded the horn again, twice, deafening the noises of everything -- the crickets, its own clacking.

“Maybe that dumb thing deserves it,” screamed Charlie.

I grabbed another rock and threw it towards the animal. No luck. It didn’t move. The ground beneath us began shaking and the light was almost parallel. The dog finally looked up, first glancing up at us then towards the light. In the brighter light, you could tell the dog was not full grown. Its coat had almost no shine, matted and gray and filled with dust, and its ribs cast strange shadows down its backend.

The dog reached back to grab its feast, tried dragging it away with its head down. I yelled down as a last resort.

“Get off the fucking track, dog!”

The howling train was right in front of us now; we could see the graffiti on the side of the boxcars. The breaks of the train began squealing just as the dog looked up one last time and we, Charlie and I both, turned our heads to look away. Charlie pulled his hood over his head.

The collision below did not make the expected noise. It was no louder than a slap, a slightly audible tick above the sound of the squealing, tapping breaks of the train. We turned around, looking first at each other then towards the tracks. The light had passed and the spot of the collision was dark, but it looked like nothing more than a puddle, a mud splatter caused by a heavy train pushing through water. The train pushed forward, slowly, shaking.

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from (Drought) Song

How brave to go on like this – living things, without sin – 

illuminations of the world, floating in a glass jar 

with no holes to breathe. The free ones are unwanted: 

the brown cardinal; she crunches down to the burning ground –

searching for a specimen – pecking  for anything with a gulp inside: 

she has been around long enough;  she is prepared to come up empty again, 

as her mother and father have done  on all ends of the Earth. 

And to the west, a fire is at war with old  giants; and to the east, colossal 

ice – fading blue to grey – is bobbing among the whales and fish.

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You can only understand people if you feel them in yourself.

John Steinbeck, East of Eden (via wnq-writers)