The Can Knows What the Can Knows
By Hobo Harry, Seer of the Sacred Tin, Whisperer to Flames, Master of the Mystic Hobo Arts
The sun rose like a spilled yolk over the rail line this mornin’. Woke up with dew on my beard and a squirrel settin’ judgment on me from the fence post. I nodded at ‘im respectful-like. He’s got secrets. All squirrels do. They just don’t like sharin’.
I brewed up some dandelion tea in my coffee-can cauldron and sat down before the Circle of Twelve—a full dozen sacred bean cans, each one attuned to a sign of the Zodiac and properly seasoned with soot, rust, and memories of many good meals past. The wind shifted. The cans rattled in harmony. That’s when I knew—today was a day of prophecy.
Trash Fire Meditation commenced at dawn. Flame spoke in riddles, as she always does. Told me: “Beware of the man in the pinstripe suit who whistles off-key. He walks with heavy pockets but a hollow soul.” I reckon that means someone in town’s about to make a bad deal. Maybe you. Maybe not. Fire don’t do names.
Afterwards, I scried deep into Leo’s can—the BBQ one with the bent rim and the hint of old hickory beans still clingin’ to the sides. Saw a vision of a cat wearin’ a crown, struttin’ through a thunderstorm like he owned the lightning. Leo folks, if you’re listenin’, today’s your moment. Go make your noise. The thunder’s just applause in disguise.
Later, a drifter by the name of Barefoot Mitch asked me if Mercury was still in “retro-gas.” I told him yes, but only if he was ridin’ westbound with a broken watch and a sandwich full of regret. He nodded like it made sense. That’s how you know someone’s really listenin’.
Now, as night rolls in and the cinders pop like old secrets, I’m sittin’ by the fire with my bindle as pillow and my soul pointed skyward. I offered the stars a piece of stale bread as payment for the wisdom they dropped today. They didn’t eat it, but I reckon they noticed.
If you’re wanderin’ tonight, keep your eyes open and your heart open wider. The universe don’t always shout—it whistles soft and low, like a freight train in the fog.
See ya tomorrow, star-walkers.
Stay warm.
—Hobo Harry
P.S. Libra’s can tipped over when I wasn’t lookin’. Expect imbalance today—maybe a spill or a sudden crush of emotion from a passing stranger. Hug gently. Don’t ask questions.
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