People At Port Trakl Part One Poem by Daniel Brick

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?