People At Port Trakl Part One

The Ministry of Fr. Sirocco 'The helpless come here for rumored miracles. Once they occurred on Sundays and Holy Days reliably. Then the world gave itself over to godlessness and depression, and miracles stalled, diminished, disappeared... And so now the helpless come here, and become one with the hopeless, and the hopeless come to die.' So spoke the young vibrant priest, Diego Sirocco, and his six companions, all lay, all professional, all rich, nodded gravely. Except one. 'Fr. Sirocco, you make my mission so much easier for me to fulfill by your woeful tale.' Diego was startled. 'So you are the latest emissary from my family, urging me to abandon the helpless descending into the hopeless.' The young man only smiled, a Luciferan smile, a smile without joy. 'Exactly, Fr. Sirocco. I want you to sin against your calling.' The other men recognized this as a moment of decision, and quietly withdrew into the milling crowd. Alone now, Diego said loftily, 'Sir, do you know the cost of despair? Do you know the value of hope? Do you include faith in your calculations, or only profit, like my family? ' The young man pretended to calculate sums with his fingers, then smiled his Luciferan smile. 'No, father, but they might.' He pointed to four burly men who lumbered into their circle. Without a word, one of them smashed Diego's face with his fist. Two others dragged his limp body to a waiting car, and dumped him in the back seat. The burly man with the fist nodded to the young man, got into the car, which sped away. People nearby, the witnesses, bowed their heads and walked away quickly. The young man stood, with his arms akimbo, smiling his Luciferen smile, as the crowd thinned and disappeared, as overhead the sun bent toward darkness. The Flight of Gulls Early morning I hear the gulls as they circle above the stationary ships I can only dimly make out through the tumbling fog. Their cries are little knives that make sharp incisions. To try to sleep again is useless. Early afternoon I walk down the cold autumn streets deserted except for exhausted workers trudging by, sullen and unresponsive. The gulls seem to be flying in slow motion, as if they are memorizing our lives below them. One of the workers curses them. Early evening I sit in a bar with three friends, a fifth friend recently deceased haunts us. A nearly empty whiskey bottle stands on shreds of poems, next to five glasses. It's like waiting in a doctor's office, knowing the news will be bad. But we still wait to hear it. That expectant waiting - that's life as we know it in Port Trakl. Nothing is really alive with reality, it's only nostalgia and desire. And far above us the gulls keep circling. Don't they ever tire of trying?