The Bananagram, a poetic form of the
author’s invention, is an elaboration upon a single word, the so-called spring
word, which functions as a partial, near- or quasi anagram in that
numbers of smaller words can be composed using one or more of its letters. These
single words, so-called sub-words or seed words, are then used as end rhymes in
an extended poetic composition, the final word of which is the spring word.
Though he
claimed, “I’m descended from Ham,”
while he conquered
and saw and then came,
he’s descended
from Eve, like I am.
Still, I fear
I’ve forgotten his name.
Next, he
chanted, “I’m Cuban, like Che.
And you’re
right: I’m a knight who says “Ni.”
(I suspect the
guy’s gay, or is ex-CIA
on a visit -- or
is it just me?)
When he crowed,
“I’m a beau of your ma’s.
We two met when
we tour’d Viet Nam,”
contradict him
did Ma – with her vim and her “Nah!”s
"Come on in from
the cold. Remain ca’m.”
Why he clucked, “Mother christened me ‘Chen’
while
supporting my chin in her han’”
remains vague –
quite like Zen – for, in fact, he’s a hen
someone (me!)
chose to re-baptize ‘Chan.’
Then he
claimed, “I’m a son of that Eichman
folks pretended
descended from Cain.
(That his
father was Eichman, that rabid Third Reich man,
was roundly
rebuked, in the main.)
Next he
feigned, “Dare I finger the hem
of a Buddha, a
Christ or such men?
No. Their hems – though pro-tem – loom as long as an em,
while my finger’s as short as an en."
Then he jawed,
“What’s my job? Feeding mice.
Without me,
they’d go hungry,” quoth he.
“And, till you
– though no vice – begin treating ‘em nice,
you shall never be mein bon ami.”
He supplies ‘em
with cookies and chai,
treats they
access by ringing a chime.
When you spot
‘em pass by, don’t neglect to say ‘Hi!’
(If they ask,
“Who’s your grocer?” say I’m.)”
“Anti-rodents
be no friends of mine.”
(He said that as he patted his chin.)
“You’re like
Seven-of-Nine, or the ‘-stein’ known as ‘Ein-.‘
Or Mao’s kin-‘neath-the-skin,
Ho Chi Minh.”
Is his surname
initialed with ‘ai’ch,”
as is
‘Hortense,’ the name of my niece?
“Or ‘Hludowic
the Vane,’ who’s called ‘Louis’ in
Maine?
Or ‘Hermione,
Butcher of Nice’?”
“No, it starts,
as does ‘all,’ with an ‘a,’”
he replied,
whereupon I honked, ‘Ha!’
“That is all
very well,” he returned, “your ‘Ha!,” eh?
Though I so-o-o-o wish you’d answered me ‘ah-h-h…’”
Then he sung me
a solfege: “…re-mi…”
“Why?” I asked.
Answered he: “’Cuz I can.
I’m a ‘-man’ of
that brand known as ‘he-.‘
I am the one-man band,” he said…An’
…out he drew
from his shirtsleeve an ace.
(‘Twas of
spades: I’d seen sev’ral at NIMH.*)
Then he grinned
as he took up his mace
and trisected
the card. (That’s just him.)
*
Pronounced ‘nim,’ as you might well imagine.
Then he
hiccoughed three times – each a mean ‘hic!’
–
and remarked,
“Though I loathe baking miche
(such a pain* turns me wan and anemic),
it remains my patisseri’l niche.
* French for ‘bread’ and pronounced ‘pan.’
Lastly,
grabbing a Coke with no ice,
he, with mostly
maniacal mien,
yes, with mien
mostly manic, in panic began: “Ich
bin ein seifenblase…” (ronamtische
strasse)
i.e., I’m your bubble machine!”
