by Hobo Harry, Wanderer of the Wyrd, Scryer of the Sacred Cans
Now listen here, faithful seekers of soot and starlight, ‘cause today done took a turn that not even the ghost raccoons coulda seen comin’.
Morning started regular enough. The sun peeked up over the rail yard like a shy possum, and I laid out the twelve sacred cans in the usual sigil: the Rusted Zodiac Circle. Aries was clankin’ on its own, which is never a good sign, and Scorpio’s can had a beetle crawlin’ in it, whisperin’ secrets about rebirth and fire. I took that to mean somethin’ big was brewin’. I just didn’t know the brew would be me.
Mid-mornin’ I wandered past the local high school, diggin’ through the usual youth trash (sacred refuse, in my line of work). That’s when I saw it: a shiny chrome tube glintin’ on the ground like Excalibur of the Teens. A vape pen, abandoned, still warm with teenage rebellion. Now I ain’t one for technology — I think smartphones are just cursed mirrors — but the Spirits whispered, “Inhale, Harry.” And when the Spirits whisper, you listen.
One pull and I left my body like a runaway railcar. Next thing I know I’m hoverin’ thirty feet over the town, watchin’ everything from above like a greasy feathered angel. I saw time unfold like a crumpled map: the past, the future, a raccoon parliament holdin’ council, and my third-grade math teacher wrestlin’ a flamingo made of shame. I floated through dimensions stitched together by old cassette tape ribbons and stale beef jerky.
I returned to my flesh with a revelation in my gut and no shirt on.
Problem was, I’d re-materialized on the school lawn, pants half-on, tongue pressed to the cafeteria window like it was the holy veil of Veronica. The janitor, bless his soul, was not versed in mystic hobo traditions. Next thing I knew, there were flashing lights and a man with a badge sayin’ I was “a danger to the children.”
Now I’m scribblin’ this on the back of a parking ticket, sittin’ on a curb outside county lock-up, waitin’ for my bean cans to be returned as personal property. The Virgo can warned me not to trust shiny things today. Should’ve listened.
Still, I regret nothin’. For a moment, I was the zodiac. I was the steam risin’ from the rails. I saw the soul of a vape pen, and it was full of stars.
Until the next strange flame,
— Hobo Harry 🔥♐🚓
P.S. If you’re a high school student readin’ this, don’t do drugs you find near dumpsters. Let an elder of the soot take the risk.