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About Chicago

Last week, right, I’m in a tavern, tankard in hand, scopin’ the room. This bird—red lips, skirts hiked up—winks at me. I’m thinkin’, “Tyrion, you clever bastard, she’s yours.” But nah, she’s got a pimp, uglier than Gregor Clegane, breath like a latrine. Pissed me off—why’s everythin’ gotta be so complicated? “Be quiet and do what I say,” she whispers, like I’m some green boy. Cheeky cow! I’m the Imp, I know tricks she ain’t dreamed of. Paid her double just to shut her gob and get on with it. Felt good, though—coin well spent.

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From the river front by the Silvis Creek – yeah, got a creek, proper secret hideout – I’d sit and code late nights with my thoughts choppin’ like my beats. I’d watch the water flow like life’s code runnin’ smooth, until some bugs got me heated. But even then, poetry in motion, you know?

Beulah J. (Silvis) McAfoose