Dear Disciples of the Driftwood Path,
The moon was a crooked grin last night, smirking down at me through the smoke of a half-spent trash fire. I took it as a sign. Jasper the raccoon had curled up inside an old tuba case he’d found behind a shuttered jazz club, and I was deep in a trance—bean can scrying. The pinto beans told me the wind would bring change. Not metaphorical change, mind you, but real, tangible who-the-hell-is-that-dancing-on-a-flatcar kind of change.
And wouldn’t you know it, just past mile marker 443 on the Southern Grain Line, the train slowed for no good reason. That’s where I met the Painted Ladies of the Dust Bowl Revue. A band of six—three in drag, two in denim, and one in a velvet cape so long it trailed into the coal car. They travel with a portable phonograph, a collection of kazoo-banjos, and a golden retriever named Madame Plink. Their jazz ain’t hot—it’s scalding. They offered me chicory coffee and a seat on a repurposed ironing board that doubled as a stage.
We danced until the sun peeled the fog off the fields, and then they vanished like a vision, back into the rust and rumble.
But before the night was out, one of them handed me a letter they’d picked up in Little Rock, addressed simply: Hobo Harry, Care of the Rails.
📜 Letter from the Rails
“Dear Hobo Harry,”
“Is it true the stars can tell us when to jump a train or when to lay low in the tall grass? I’ve been running since the snow melted and something in me’s weary. Just once I’d like to know what’s ahead before I leap. Yours in soot and sleep, —Cinders McGill, Boxcar Philosopher.”
Ah, Cinders—you’re singing the hobo’s eternal hymn. The stars don’t promise safety, friend. But they whisper. Tonight, Jupiter’s squinting at Mercury like he’s caught him cheating at cards, and Venus is smudged behind a freight of clouds. That tells me: don’t trust easy. Keep your boots tied and your exit routes clear. But the Moon in Sagittarius? That’s your green light. When your gut hollers “go,” go like a comet with unpaid debts.
🌌 Hobo’s Horoscope – June 2nd, 2025
Aries: Don’t barter with a man missing both eyebrows. Trouble follows where fire once kissed.
Taurus: The raccoons are gathering. Watch what you leave unguarded.
Gemini: Today’s a day for fast talk and faster feet. Avoid eye contact with anyone carrying an accordion.
Cancer: There’s beauty in rust and wisdom in mildew. Embrace the decay.
Leo: A storm’s brewing—but it’s in your heart, not the sky.
Virgo: Skip the westbound train at dusk. There’s something aboard that hums wrong.
Libra: You’ll find love in a puddle reflection—or at least amusement. Take the risk.
Scorpio: Don’t mistake silence for peace. Sometimes it’s the breath before the howl.
Sagittarius: Someone will offer you a map. Burn it. The way is yours to chart.
Capricorn: Rest your bones, if only for today. Even wolves nap.
Aquarius: You’re overdue for a change of scenery. The rails wait.
Pisces: Look behind you—not for danger, but for something you forgot to be grateful for.
Until next time, keep your bindle packed and your heart open. The world’s full of jazz if you know how to listen.
– Hobo Harry 🕯️
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