Ford's Theater, April 15th, 1865...

Petersen House, Washington, D.C.

I admit to own a passion

for the Civil War in general,
and the life and death of
the sixteenth president in particular

between a hard spot of whiskey

and draughts of arrack

nonetheless (without doubt), this Yankee

would be fain to travel back

to Antebellum America

amidst the urban din and clack

where smelting earsplitting,

choking industrialization

a deaf fin hit drawback,
and where dark shadows cast an eternal

edge of night pallor tubby somewhat exact

from mighty robber barons,

who tolerated no flack

despite the (bleeding nose against grindstone)

inhumanity bearing down hard

with very little giveback

viz zit head as greenback

yes...no matter the noxious

crash course urbanization
(and attendant ghettoization)

breeding a lunging tuberculosis hack

this twenty first century middle aged

married man (an average Monterey Jack
ass), whose sought after

claim to fame penchant

modestly admits to whiz knack

crafting literary concoctions with no lack
of ideas, where one arose

strong as an oncoming mack

truck (this vibrant fascination

with the American Civil War

(even before Ken Burns popularized

calamitous event) in non black

and white (digitally remastered technicolor)

exemplified, enumerated, and emphasized
how a minor dispute got way offtrack

whereat stately commander in chief did pack

a punch analogous sans, barreling forth

like unstoppable quarterback

despite his six foot four inch

gangly physique cull rack

tried his darnedest

(or unprintable epithet)

yet a coterie of anti war subjects

figuratively and literally up in arms

wanted nothing less to sack

the sixteenth president,

whose aged fifty seven year old countenance
one month after

Ides of March death didst dance
during the low key celebration sans,

internecine bloodbath Grants'

and Lees' armistice

one hundred and fifty six years ago

the peace treaty signed

(April 9th, 1865) at Appomattox,

an irrevocable agony did blow

when that fateful, mournful,

somber night at Ford's Theater

the grim reaper didst (like Jim) crow

after one shot rang out blasting,

where crimson tide didst flow

drowning American history

at that juncture grow

wing no less painless today, which hoo
veer ring agony didst smite

incomprehensible cleft mow

wing down unfinished ambition, which no

one other than Abraham Lincoln could sow
the racial rift, that slavery trucked in tow
generations shackled with compounded woe

that fateful April 15, 1865

one hundred plus fifty six years tis bin

long since deceased taking deadly
gunshot punctuated deadly din
whence fifteen decades passed sans
conspirator tried to get even
at Ford’s theater – forever
eviscerating thin lipped grin

of the sixteenth president - still
his unrealized promising dreams with in

reconstruction paradigm presses
historians to speculate what kin
ship his unrealized post-bellum blueprint

while he sat in his booth, a bullet
wrought him slumped over,

now tis 7 score + 16 years witnessed

assassination of Abraham Lincoln
team of rivals mastermind, re: the
American Civil War wreck con struck shin
yet…his positive affects find him
honored with outsize depictions and a con tin

hue wing legacy sustained, whereby
hearts and minds he posthumously did win.

Said enigmatic man shrouded and idolized
with beatific, democratic essence
fantastic, honorific, pacific aura, dogma,
and persona with meager off fence

to generations of United States citizens –
enthralled ladies and gents

whose reverberations and ramifications

of humane karma lives on – hence

begotten progeny enjoying freedoms
perchance ensconced with rapt innocence
or those inured with sensibility and sense
can bequeath pride without prejudice
whether living in splendour or in tents
toward Illinois rail road log splitter,
whose humble roots forged steely covenants.