King Triton

Johny Tulluck 1980-2003 -- Written December, 2003

He wore dark curls
red flannels, ripped holes
He was something other than
most. You knew this a few
moments after meeting him.
He was one, we all hoped
would make it.
He lived life at the sharp edge
between brilliance and insanity.
He embraced neither.
Yet was greater than both.

I remember shapeless nights sitting in his
room with the flicker of black
lights and two toned tv
the only illumination.
He seemed to hover in there
like the bat cave—discussing
Ginsberg, joyce, Aristotle
He says he related to Stephen
Deadalus more than any other
character. I see him more and
more, every time I read

I wonder, as I always do at this
point, if there wasn’t something
more I could have done.

He was someone desiring
so effortlessly to be saved.
I wonder if maybe I could
have

I recall one night at a lakehouse
in Maine, we stayed up till the
wee hours drinking beer and talking
about life. He agreed when I told
him he seemed like the kind of guy
that never had close friends who
really cared for him. I told him I was
one who would care.
But I’m not sure I did.
At least not to the degree
I wanted.

I kick myself now. Thinking of the
many afternoons I wanted to write him.
The many days I remembered him
in conversation with others but
never told him so.
The times I’d quote him,
laugh at how he’d order me around.
How he’d hop around the kitchen
in big work boots on Friday nights.

After I traveled seven long weeks from
coast to coast he
was the first to greet me in Massachusetts
gathering that high pitched voice of his
and skwawking and bannyroostering
around with carlos rossi
and hand rolled cigarettes.

We shared a certain bond in the beats
When I read him a poem in Lowell
overlooking Kerouac park
he told me I had incredible powers
of self perception
I never told him,
He was the greatest of the young poets
I had ever read.

I guess this is how life works
the great ones slowly die off,
what we’re left with
are the burnouts
the boredoms,
the sad deacons
who give not
enough of life
to ever contemplate
losing it.

Truth be told
I never really
expected johny
to live a long life.
He was something
more than most
of us deserved.
yet less than
many could
tolerate.

He would not sit
quietly and watch
life pass.
He would not allow
the energy of industry
to guide his steps.
He would carve his own
path—towards his own
destiny.
And in the process
enrich our shrines
with the glow of his
sufferings.

The last time
I saw John
he was high stepping
in an oversized
tweed coat
towards Harvard
square

Yelling over his shoulder
to watch
his nick drake
imitation

And it dawned on me once more
as a smile crept across
my face

that I would probably never
see a kid like that again

And I tell you what
I never have