A Daily Blog Entry from Harry the Hobo Mystic
April 17, 2025
Mornin’,
The sky cracked open like a week-old can o’ Vienna sausages this dawn. Omen. Good one? Maybe. Hard to say till you’ve scryed the beans.
I found a fresh can today—Bush’s Original. Empty, save for a whisper o’ sauce and the ghost of a pinto. I sat by the alley near 12th and Bender, set it on the flat of my palm, tilted it just so. The light caught it. Glimmerin’ like a sliver of fate. I peered in.
Saw visions. Smoky and warbled, like steam from a laundromat vent:
A pigeon wearin’ a plastic ring as a crown.
A pawnshop window glintin’ on a broken Rolex.
A woman arguin’ with a ghost about a shopping cart.
Interpretation? Still brewin’. The mystic arts ain’t always instant. You gotta let the meaning simmer.
Later, I wandered back to my barrel—the ol’ girl I call Saint Burnadette. She was already lit, cracklin’ with the music of combustion. I took my place beside her, crossed legs like the sages of old. Trash fire meditation ain’t just starin’ at fire—nah, it’s a communion. The flickers speak. The pops and hisses, that’s a language, if you’re listenin’ close.
Today the flames told me this:
“There is warmth even in waste. And clarity, buried beneath the soot.”
That hit me square in the ribs.
A man passed by—suit too clean, eyes too tired. He tossed a coffee cup into the barrel, and I swear the fire flared green for a moment. Strange alchemy in caffeine, perhaps.
Anyway, the hobo path is full of signs. Sometimes, it’s a rat that leads you to truth. Other times, it’s a bent spoon pointing north. I follow what comes. And I trust the fire, the beans, and the breeze that whistles through shopping cart wheels.
Until tomorrow,
Harry
Beanseer, Fire-whisperer, and Vagabond Adept of the Hobo Mystics
🌀 “The road is the rite. The trash, the tool. The can reveals all.”
Leave a Reply