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RALPH MONDAY
The Hollygrail
Johnny Blue had been spiritless since birth.
Even his mother noticed when he popped
Out like a sleek seal—sorta sideways—
That boy ain't got no soul.
She traded him to his father for a couple
Of tickets to Disneyland and future
Remuneration to be named.
Johnny's father had a soul once, but
Lost it fishing for salmon in Alaska.
The jeans do tell.
Totem poles and grizzly bears quickly
Became boring; then his father either
Died, or went away—choose the story.
There poor Johnny was, like a convict
Out on parole, already doomed for a
Crime not quite sure of.
He had never even heard of Kafka or castles.
He sensed something was amiss, but like
A lemming turned the wrong way
He never could quite make the leap.
Children threw mudballs at him.
Critters shunned him.
Johnny scratched his head and went to
The chief totem guy. Blueboy offered
Some tobacco but the major pole folk
Wanted cold Uncle Sam. He gave him
What he had, which wasn't much, threw
In his best slingshot.
Dude broke out his premium feathers and
Consulted the hawk sitting blind and
Mute on top of the pole.
No soul, said the man.
What?
No soul. Nuff said. Wander on down to the heartland,
My chicken dumpling; look for it there.
MTV, devil music filled him up for awhile,
As well as bad blonde sitcoms and an occasional
Western or two.
This became unsatisfying. He went to the black
Clubs where there was plenty of soul food,
Tried his best at a whirling dance dervish.
Brothers only sadly shook their heads.
No soul.
He tried the gay bars and floor shows.
The powdered, skirted butterfly boys
Looked better than he did.
No soul.
He tried political rallies; bad mistake.
Politicians and lawyers definitely have
No soul. Skunks got better jive.
Finally found it: at a Kmart blue light
Special right between cheap lingerie
And last year's Christmas lights.
The Hollygrail, a plastic goblet, a bit
Tattered and stained with manufactured
Holly leaves sticking out the top.
Man, it shone like a TV's dead channel
Late at night. Cheap, too.
Buck fifty.
Blue man polished that thing up like
A brass general, put it under his pillow,
Took it out every day to examine like
The tooth fairy's golden gift.
His life changed; even got a girlfriend
And a cat.
Picked them up foraging in one of the
Best downtown dumpsters.
Knew he was on a holy roll
Because the electronic preachers
Spat out his schtick like an animal
Control officer on a better day.
Till his pavement babe started to
Feed the cat chittlings out of his
Hollygrail.
Definitely changed his attitude.
You don't touch god thing, baby.
It got soul.
He kicked her out, but kept the
Cat, better pussy anyway.
Cat died; Johnny couldn't find the Hollyheart.
So he called 900 numbers,
The psychic network at least a
Trinity of times.
Bennie Hen put him onto the trick;
Springer zeroed in like a Kamikaze
Planting Shinto for the Pope.
That's when he went on the show.
That's when he sniffed the scent,
Took to wearing Old Spice
Got a gig of his own in Nashville.
Sported a California tan, hustled advice
To the Scientologists, dug the genie
Out of the bottle, ran the game on infomercials
Sold soul to a million freaks
Before the feds busted him
Because his garbage girl (the faithless twit)
Turned him in on a technicality and Slick Willie
Became his guru.
Copyright RALPH MONDAY
(all rights reserved; To copy this poem, please contact the poet)
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