“… I tried to be perfect
it just wasn’t worth it
nothing could ever be so wrong
it’s hard to believe me
it never gets easy
I guess I knew that all along

As the clock ticked over to start my fortieth trip around an impossible ball of gas explosions, I sat in a run down bar in Torrance, California, bracketed with commentary on Doctor Who and reminiscences over a fallen friend. One of my best friends stood on stage, maybe twenty five feet away, finishing up strains of “The Ballroom Blitz.” The songs I sang on the eve of this milestone will provide punctuation for these musings.

“… there are many thing that I would like to say to you
but I don’t know how …

On one hand, I have a laundry list of accomplishments worth noting. Edited a national magazine with a circulation of 200,000 by the time I was 21. Guiding hand in the construction of five multi-million dollar websites. Two novels published. Poetry published in a number of anthologies and journals. Talented wife, wonderful children, steady job at a company investing in growth.

“… off in the night, while you live it up, I’m off to sleep
waging wars to shape the poet and the beat
I hope it’s gonna make you notice
I hope it’s gonna make you notice

… someone like me …”

I have my share of demerits and disparagements against my name. A failed marriage during the first Dubya presidency. Financial catastrophes. Car accidents, almost dying four or five times … in the vernacular, “sh** got real,” too.

“… a heart that’s full up like a land fill,
a job that slowly kills you,
bruises that won’t heal …”

Through out my childhood and my twenties, I had a recurring dream that in September of 2013, I would be run down in the middle of a street by a yellow Ford Gran Torino. It was as crystal clear in my mind as any memory. I don’t seriously believe it will happen, but let’s just say I am going to be very conservative in my movements in September, and likely to drive right up to anywhere I’ll need to be.

“… it’s the terror of knowing
what this world is about
watching some good friends
screaming ‘Let me out’
pray tomorrow gets me higher high high
pressure on people, people on streets …”

One of my strongest beliefs was that a brother younger than 40 in a Cadillac was begging for trouble. I imagined the birthday would come and I’d magically transform — grow gray tinted dreadlocks, ditch the t-shirts and jeans for button shirts and slacks with a mean crease. You know, look like a grown up.

I find the all-purpose style I’ve had since college still holds up, that I can dress it up with a button shirt and take a meeting, but in general, my Nissan Altima’s a more innocuous (and cost effective) choice, that even a week’s worth of hair on my head feels so hot and itchy that it’s simpler to get my latter-season Ben Sisko on. I don’t wanna be somebody different, not like that. Just a more effective me.

“… even the best fall down sometimes
even the wrong words seem to rhyme
out of the doubt that fills your mind
you finally find
you and I
collide …

I say all this to say that I could go in any direction. I could toil away my days like the beleaguered protagonist of The Police’s “Synchronicity 2″ or I could become the Black George Lucas, or hit any point in between. All my best laid plans lie shattered on the road behind me, diminished from the second they made contact with the harsh light of reality. I honestly don’t know where I’m going, or what’s next, but I’m at a point where I care a lot less about it.

“… don’t give up your independence
unless it feels so right
nothing good comes easily
sometimes you gotta fight …”

What I do know is that I’m finding a balance to know what’s right for me. I tweeted this past year that every minute for me is stolen from one of you. That’s fine. It’s not every minute, and I do a lot for others. There’s a space between the vile jackass I once was and the non-stop normal guy I could become where I can take care of business while still furthering my own star-shattering ambitions.

“… nobody said it was easy,
girl it’d be a shame for us to part
nobody said it was easy,
no one ever said it would be so hard

I’m going back to the start …

So, this is 40, with apologies to Judd Apatow.

Playing (Music): “Such Great Heights” by The Postal Service

Now that there’s no chance I can be blamed for trying to affect the outcome of probably the most expensive election in history, here’s some stuff I haven’t said in literally dozens of Facebook comment threads over the last few weeks.

I grew up in Memphis, and saw the sites where King was slain before I was ten years old. My mother was a Black Panther. I am aware of and respect every element of our struggle for freedom.

I will not vote.

I am not registered. I doubt I ever will be, and I turn 40 in January. I will not participate in this farce with crying Afghan orphans and the end of personal privacy and the shredding of constitutional rights and the rest. Bad enough I’m forced to pay taxes practically at gunpoint (especially when one of the candidates — under Democrats or Republicans — did not). History will be very forgiving of the current administration, which in fact has a laundry list of accomplishments as long as my arm.

History is more forgiving than I am.

I am not telling anybody else not to vote. I am not decrying the farcical nature of it (although in a blue state it would be easy to, even on the laughable propositions). I just won’t be a part of it. In the words of KRS, “I like to ask these politicians, ‘would Jesus vote?’”

He would not. He’d be in the streets making things happen. This tactic is not my tactic. This battle is not my battle, and all the pretty words and grainy 1960s photos and cross posts will not change it.

I do, however, find it all a fascinating story, almost as interesting as watching Homeland. As with all things, your mileage may vary, but I’ll be glad to see these exhortations in my timeline disappear.

Some of my reasons …

1) I will never do jury duty. Jury duty is exclusively for registered voters. I believe the criminal justice system of the United States is irreparably broken, and have spent my life avoiding any form of participation in it.

2) In the words of KRS-ONE, “whether you vote for the lesser of two evils, you vote for evil/politics and god are not equal.” I’m striving towards the concept of Dr. Ron Daniel, who posited the idea of pockets of Black people becoming “ungovernable” — exempting themselves from public services, standing secure without the “protection” of the police and so on. I’m not there yet, but plan to be before I’m retirement aged.

3) Moreover, let’s say I get all presidential. I could vote for the rapacious businessman or I could vote for the guy who did this.

I’m out. Don’t involve me in that foolishness any more than the taxes that I don’t have enough guns or paperwork to stop (yet). This election in particular isn’t important because of how many things the candidates share in common as centrists appealing to the more extreme elements of their parties. The Supreme Court justice issue? Meh. The idea of “balancing the budget” or fiscal responsibilty? Right, sell me another $400 toilet seat cover to hide the funds for your secret rendition facilities. Whatever.

4) In the words of Talib Kweli, “conditions in the ‘hood never changed with the president.” I had a friend from South Africa, who told me that even after the Afrikaans regime fell, “it didn’t matter if the boot on my neck had a Black foot inside or a white one, it was still a boot on my neck.” I feel similar. Presidents are just characters on another TV show.

5) “What about local elections? You can effect things there!” Meh. I’ve dated and known many people who worked in local government and see exactly where the money goes and what happens. I’d again be better served working towards becoming “ungovernable.” Or doing it the mafia way and just kidnapping and punching the kidneys of people the elected officials find valuable. Even when voting for something makes sense, it’s possible to get people to work against their own interests if you have enough money and determination.

6) “So many people sacrificed for you to have this right!” Thanks. They also — in effect — weakened the growing Black infrastructure that many in corporate America saw as a threat to their own economic hegemony by demanding integration while not reminding their constituents to maintain their own (would-be “ungovernable”) systems. My mom was a Panther. I get it. I disagree with their strategy while respecting their intentions. It is my belief that they fought for me to have a choice. I am using that choice. Dissent is a stance.

7) I don’t want to. I don’t want to vote for “my” next American Idol, I don’t want to vote to see if the Joker will kill Jason Todd, and I don’t want to vote for anything else, all of which (on a long enough timeline) matter about as much to me. I accept that I am a de facto prisoner of war categorized as a “citizen” (ha) but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna get Stockholm Syndrome and play along with the charade.

I also covered all of this two years back.

So there you have it.

Playing (Music): “Salute Your Solution” by the Raconteurs

Here we go now …

There’s no such thing as peace.

Rocket propelled grenades
sit next to breakfast bowl
play with 7.62 mm shell casings,
find blood splattered on street
four days out of seven.
More dead from fever and hunger,
less discriminating surge.

Baba fights the Americans,
Kalashnikov his companion
more often than mama.
Baba’s baba fought the Russians,
Americans at his side
more than his bride
whispered Pashto in his ear.

I am eleven years old.
I have never been kissed
by anyone not a blood relative.
I can make out
a passage or two of scripture,
know rustle of baba’s thick beard
and coarse clothes
when he hugs me,
taste of mama’s kahdoos.

Two years ago,
American soldiers
left a magazine near marketplace.
Kept it hidden for a month,
buried behind the house,
before daring to gaze upon
impossibly smooth skinned westerners.
Smiling and immodest,
shaven faced men,
like children, really
women’s bosoms in view.
They look like they’ve never known
bits of gravel in stew,
like they eat meat
less gamy than goat,
and not just on special days.
They look like relentless,
cloying smell of poppies
isn’t woven into every memory.

I don’t hate them,
fat and godless,
but I understand those who do.
I’m too hungry
to hate them.

At night,
sounds of shelling and screams
hopefully far from my pallet.
Wonder what nights are like
beyond hills of Sharobi,
where baby faced boy-men
sleep next to red lipped harlots
on endless pillows,
in safety,
in safety …
too busy tracking down survival
under unrelenting sunshine.

Mama tells stories
about golden days of Afghanistan,
days when quiet wasn’t frightening,
times of plenty.
Baba snorts
when she’s not around,
says we’ve always been
stop on somebody’s road
somewhere,
never wanting to be here,
always needing to control the way.

Baba says,
there’s no such thing as peace.

I don’t know about any of that.
I know sand and stone,
I know running and gunfire,
body parts and explosions,
prayer and waiting
for freedom even I don’t believe
will ever come.

”Jangi Shah: A Hymn For Afghanistan”
By Hannibal Tabu

Thanks to my wife Myshell for this idea, driving and listening to KPFK.

Playing (Music): “Sin City” by Sin City (Verbal and Icarus)