A geriatric gangster? Come on—a gregarious gangster maybe but old men don’t make good gangsters—just deadbeats. What the hell? Where do we draw the line on old anyway. It’s all relative as Einstein would say with his fussy-mussy hair, round face, and spectacles. If you’re twenty, forty’s old, if your forty, sixty’s old, and so on. Why do we attain wisdom when we’re too old to implement it? Go figure. Maybe God does make mistakes. Time is distance in the mind and when you’re in the middle where you can look forward and backward with your third eye you can get paralyzed and freeze. But if you put one foot in front of the other you start to forge a path. Where it will go is or is not totally up to you. Unexpected circumstances jerk you around, distract and make you fall. But up you get and keep walking into the sun or the moon. Much prefer the moon and its whiter light, don’t you? Nature’s white is always whiter. Yellow-white houses sit on white snow. And Snow White is blue, red, and yellow, isn’t she? Things get confusing in this world of colors and words. They’re all mixed up in a potpourri pot and the smell is profuse. Write on, write on—ye old gangster of verse.
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