Mornin’, star children.
This is your ol’ friend Hobo Harry comin’ to you from an undisclosed freight-side location, after a minor kerfuffle with the constabulary. You see, I was settin’ up shop behind a Starbucks, borrowin’ a lil’ cosmic signal from their WiFi so I could upload your horoscopes from my trusty government-issued prophecy device (folks call it an Obama phone, but I call it “The Oracle of Unlimited Minutes”).
I had the cans all aligned proper—twelve sacred bean vessels, each hummin’ in tune with the signs. I’d just finished uploadin’ Gemini’s fortune when Officer Beardy and his junior deputy, Deputy No-Socks, showed up with a flashlight and a bad attitude.
“Sir, you can’t loiter here,” they said.
I told ‘em I wasn’t loiterin’, I was communin’. There’s a difference. Loiterin’ is when you hang around with no purpose. I had a sacred purpose! I was uplinkin’ the universe’s secrets through municipal WiFi!
But they didn’t take kindly to the explanation. One kicked over my Aries can. Another tried to confiscate my burner phone, but I distracted ‘em by yellin’ “LOOK! A rare WiFi owl!” and slippin’ into the alley like smoke through a boxcar crack.
So here I am now, tucked beside an old mattress and a feral cat who’s either my spirit guide or just real judgy. My trash fire’s lit. It smells of scorched corn chips and revelation.
Today’s lesson, folks? Sometimes the stars want you to run. Not from fate, but from the five-oh.
But I did get all your horoscopes posted before I got run off, so the work of the cosmos continues, uninterrupted by badges and bad vibes.
Tomorrow I’ll find a new signal. Maybe the public library, maybe a Taco Bell with weak security. The stars will guide me. They always do.
Until then, keep your cans polished, your fires warm, and your heart open like a boxcar on a summer night.
Still whisperin’ with the raccoons and readin’ the skies,
— Hobo Harry
Transmitting stardust from the alleys of fate.