The following twelve 'tales' will probably define my launch into the 'nano write' 2010 'group write'. My latest experimental novel: SIXTY will, with luck, be constructed of two truncated 'tales' per day, interlinked over the course of 30 days to produce 60 TALES.

Hopefully something corresponding to Buckminster Fuller's concept of 'Synergy. Finally presented 'in light' as a TTOTT C60 football of 60 'tales'. (I can see this in my minds eye) and hopefully I can map and share the process to inspire others to follow with this geometrically based narrative method, inspired and brought to my attention by the great 'Borsky', once again, thanks mate.

Here are Twelve Tales (v1.0) roughly corresponding directly to characters from Robert Anton Wilson's 'tale of the tribe' and yes, I hope to edit and accept suggestions for editing, translating, illustrating, 3D modelling etc.

Following this principle, these 'twelve tales' maybe considered as making up an Icosahedron of 12 sides and 20 vertices', the corresponding geometrical symmetry may, at some future date, make for interesting 'literary' intersection points.

(These 12 Tales were remixed into my experimental novel SIXTY, available here soon.)



McLuhan dives into the blue pool, and while executing a perfect Star-Fish floating exercise he rotates leisurely on his back anti-clockwise. He's suddenly blinded by a wave of chlorinated water and a choir of angels singing "what are you doin' by 'The Beatles'

Tapping at the touch sensitive screen of his underwater writing tablet with dexterous fingers, McLuhan utters the second incantation. Pulsating tones stream from the sky harp and abduct his ears and brains.

“Aglo’s” sings McLuhan, his voice reverberating around the great glass pool.

“Aglo’s?” Ez replies, busy cutting his master seals atop the Temple diving tower using a cuttlefish bone needle, 13 Lilly pads and special intelligent fungus paste made from a derivative of Calcium.

Ez watched McLuhan spinning in the water below him and thought to himself that his beard looked like bamboo on a small island, as if growing out of his mouth, ears and nose holes. But McLuhan never had a beard when I met him at St. Elizabeth's Ez thought.

“Aglo’s” McLuhan roars again, while spinning at a faster speed creating a rippled vortex in his wake.

“Morgenheutegesternwelt” He sings to the tune of 'why does it hurt when I pee' by Frank Zappa, which translates from German into (tomorrow-today-yesterday world).

James Joyce rose, jumping out of the water like a Dolphin throwing an egg-timer to McLuhan, while carefully observing his Celtic-spiral ring, flying over Mcluahn's arm.

Ez sees what looked like the scales of Poseidon or another sea monster on Joyce’s back and fore-arms, looking as if he had been transfigured by Circe into half-salmon half man. Forearmed is for-warned? he thought.

“the unfacts, did we possess them, are too imprecisely few to warrant our certitude” Joyce thought while exiting the pool by the steps slowly, and walking with a lurching gait like a penguin carrying his sleek-head in a strangely distinguished way.

“To be in Paradise, the Cool waters, with JOY”, Ez bellows, like old Satchmo. Aha, Joyce thought.

“A toast to Aglo’s great glass wall of courage, care, melody and bawdy Comedy. May the tribe swim strong.” McLuhan said to the tune of 'Epistrophy' by Thelonious Monk.

“L’amor, the opposite of hatred, goodness, truth, the indestructible and immortal triple goddess.” Ez replies with youthful excitement.

“Information equals surprise. Us discordian's must stick apart.” McLuhan said, scratching his new beard with the expression of comedic shock on his jolly round face, still turning like a five speed wheel in the pool, changing direction now to a clockwise motion.

“To the great courage in my new head, peace.” Mcluhan chants. While Ez reluctantly notices McLuhan's long long legs with some white hairs like those of an Ostrich, signifying West and North on the human pentagram, he thought.

“So mote it be”, McLuhan booms, slowly folding his long flipper-like hands around, in a fashion not unlike some moves from Tai Chi, until his fingers were wrapped around his own legs, next, in turn he tried relaxing his large left toe. With this ritualistic floating yoga maneuver Mcluhan held a goofy facial expression, but taking on the appearance of our brave hero, Bob Dobbs.

“The temple seems holy because it is not for sale”. McLuhan sings again. “NOT FOR SALE”

“Abortisement.” Joyce bellowed.

"I want my fuckng money, motherfucker; where's my fucking money - motherfucker". said McLuhan, laughing a hearty belly laugh and wiggling his toes with excitement.


Bruno's arm tugged on the ropes, to him they were sky ropes, ladders reaching up into the heavens. He looked upwards in wonderment, although blindfolded and tied-up tight to a wooden stake.

Bruno's foot wiggled against the ropes looped tight around the wooden stake that reached up his spine to his tired intelligent head.

John Dee walks around the back of the wooden throne, watching Bruno squirm a little in his ropes, yet seemingly in an ecstatic state.

"Circeals" Bruno announces.

"Circeals?" Dee asks, running a coin with a hole in the middle through his fingers.

Bruno's sideburns looked like spent banana skins, Dee thought momentarily

"Circeals" Bruno mumbled, as he saw a flame creep closer in the distance.

"Decentralized" Bruno said.

"Blow", said Edward Kelly, who lifted up a small flute on the end of a pole to Bruno, noticing a faint glow above his right shoulder.

Dee could sense Bruno's heart beating stronger, as the Roman torch bearers approached.

"I should be up there Giordano, not you, sunny-G" Dee said,

"The circeals will become cinder seals of this steak" Bruno said defiantly.

Dee contemplated the suffering of Giordano...

"Their center might not hold, with no wheels, no maps, no Hermetic seals" Bruno said, with the look of a perplexed puppy for a split-second, his eye's large and intelligent, the light glowing incandescent.

Bruno made 'circular' motions with his tongue, while Dee observed his big toe move in synchrony with the tongue, and remembered the 7 x 7 x 7 graph in his dream the previous night.

Bruno snapped his own ankle to free his foot momentarily, and proceeded to lick his own toe, a secret coded message to initiates and giving him a sense of peace and harmony before he was burnt for heresy by the Holy Catholic Church.


The Jaw of James Augustus Joyce protruded like an Stone Easter Island head, stoic and puffing a little while the leeches were removed from his eye.

Joyce's Knee poked through the strange zip on his trousers reaching right down to his left ankle.

Yeats appears behind the cubicle curtain, watching Joyce undergo leech treatment.

"no-more-nails" Joyce exclaims.

"No-more-nails" Yeats said, while adjusting his pipe.

Joyce's eye's looked like two gouged-out kiwi halves, Yeats thought.

"no....more....snails" Joyce said, squirming.

'Ledbellyvision" Joyce shouts out.

"Tea-time", said Ezra Pound walking behind the curtain and handing a teapot to Joyce focusing his eyes on a fly hovering atop his long index finger.

Yeats perceived Pound's injured foot from watching him walk
"That's a hip hop you have Ez"

"Where's Pound?" Yeats inquired.

Joyce starts to spread no-more-nails onto his trouser zipper.

"Pull yourself together Jim!" Yeats said.

"How close together? do you see my Zipper experiment...Billy?" Joyce said, with a broad smile curled down at the edges like a rubber plant.

Joyce squeezed the no-more-nails juice onto his own head while Yeats watched his legs tremble beneath him.

His left knee knocked into his right leg and he rebalanced hi head, that had been tilted to the side, his face like Moses parting the oceans.


Shannon's finger pressed the 'E' key over and over again as he simultaneously opened his mouth and symbols flew out, like strange birds and perched themselves back onto his keys so quickly, he didn't notice.

Claude's arms rest on a sling contraption connected by a network of pulleys to a suspended saddle holding his body.

Norbert Weiner climbs up the spiral staircase, watching Shannon swinging joyfully in his contraption.

"Allfeedsback" Shannon said.

"Allfeedsback" Wiener said, somewhat astonished by Shannon's outburst.

Shannon's hair and eyebrows looked like fresh white coconut flake, Wiener thought.

"Allfeedsback" Shannon repeated, at a lower volume.

"Levity" Shannon said.

"Inhale" said Erwin Schroedinger, who came in through the gift-shop entrance to the lab, passing to Shannon a special Ying/Yang dragon designed bong, while glancing up at the fly-paper hanging just a few inches above Claude's ears.

Weiner looked up and to his surprise found himself confronted with the reality of noticing Schroedinger's 'donger' sticking out his trouser's like a German hot dog... a schnauzer was, it's worst

"I want to be in the saddle" Wiener said in a whinny tone.

"Ride the feedback, the saddle topology" Shannon insisted.

Wiener could see sweat dripping from Shannon's ear's, and noticed his concerned expression reminded himself that he also needed a break, and pretty soon.

The saddle probably helps the horses follow evolutionary courses, the convex of the horse's torso...Shannon thought, pulling a face like a Chinese Sumo wrestler

Shannon applied tension with his entire body to the strings reaching out like a spiders web across the room achieving maximum physical feedback. Wiener watched nervously as Shannon convulsed on the saddle floating in mid-air.

Shannon lifted his arms up to his legs while laying his head back in a relaxed fashion, and resonated with Pantajali.


Fenollosa's left hand glided across the hemp-canvas, the brilliant and scholarly man maintained a deep meditative state, sitting full lotus, in pitch blackness.

Fenollosa's right hand held a teapot, he breathed deeply, and his nostrils joined with the tea vapors, rising.

Friederich Nietzsche gazes through the study window watching Fenollosa, illuminated by our Silver moonlight.

"Alphonso" Nietzsche said.

"Alphonso?" Fenollosa said, dipping an Eagle embossed 'seal' into his ink well.

Nietzsche thought that Fenollosa's large hands looked like Coconuts, fury and huge, like a true Gorilla grip, I bet.

"Alphonso" Fenollosa chanted, looping himself into light trance.

"Letters" Fenollosa said.

G.I Gurdjieff turns up to the house, keeping his distance a while, watching the other two gentleman, and proceeds to enter the house handing Fenollosa a water pipe, standing transfixed by the complex weaved artwork hanging from the ceiling. Nietszche notices Gurdjieff's stiff neck by the way he walked with a lilt.

'I would like to return, eternally, to where you stand HERE' Nietzsche said.

"Alphonso's breakfast teapot" Fenollosa said, smiling.

Nietzsche watched as Fenollosa packed away his brushes, canvas and paints with a neurotic precision.

Painting, swordsmanship and tea-ceremony" Fenollosa said, making hand gestures and wiggling his eyebrows.

"Watch the moon pour nectar into the new ear" Fenollosa said as he proceeded to tilt the teapot up to his ear, creating a silouette against the silver wall. Nietzsche watched Fenollosa's feet with caution while he danced around like a fawn.

Fenollosa jumps to the floor, tossing the teapot skyward, and in the meantime raising his feet up onto his own back and catching the teapot neatly on his head, his face calm as Shiva, focused, mysterious.


Korzybski's leg flipped backwards and forwards as he struggled in the web like a human fly, his face showing maximum concentration and a concerted effort to free himself from his own geometrical labyrinth, the differential strands covered his eyes.

Korzybski held a disc in his left hand that coupled the threads above his head, which were in turn attached to the inner edges of a giant Buckminster Fuller inspired, dodecahedron. There were 60 threads all together, grouped in five's to Korzybski's legs, arms and head.

Bucky Fuller watched Alfred from outside the great glass structure, tilting his head to the side and moving his field of view about 33 degrees.

"Aleister" Korzybski calls, the sound echoing about the room.

"Aleister?" Bucky replied, wiping his monocle with a triangular red wipe.

Bucky noticed that Korzybski's limbs and head were stretched out in such a way as to resemble the cross-section cut of a rusty pomegranate.

"Aleister" Korzybski shout's again, wriggling less and looking high as a kite, eye's rolling and saliva gathered at the sides of his mouth.

"Structural Differential" Korzybski stated.

Norbert Weiner strolls into the dodecahedron room and climbs a up ladder to hand Korzybski a Melodica, inserting the mouthpiece into Korzybski's mouthpiece. Norbert looked up at the criss-cross network of cables rising up from Korzybski's head, 'like a galaxy of strings', he thought. Bucky glanced across at Weiner and could see a TV remote control strapped to his inside leg.

"I wish I were atop a ladder, inside that Dodecahedron" Bucky said.

"The strings describe Aleister's Hermetic correspondences" Korzybski said.

Bucky felt slightly distressed when Korzybski started to wiggle and shake violently.

"Perhaps Pull and Push of sun and moon impact on the roots of consciousness?" Korzybski proposed, seriously, his face looking stern and honest.

"Aleister, my ass!" Korzybski shouted, laughing, while Bucky looked at the sweat dripping from his head.

Suddenly, Korzybski started swinging both his legs backwards and raised his arms up together behind his back, linking all the five attachments into one point, he hung suspended like Harry Houdini, his face resembling Osiris in the pyramid texts.


Vico swung his arms around before leaping onto his horse, a perfect judgment of time and distance by a man who perfected many practical as well as theoretical problems based on these principles. Vico, however didn't foresee the horse-shit thrown from behind a water barrel, that temporarily blinded him as he sat on his horse.

Vico, clicked his right stirrup with his foot, while hoisting himself further forward on his saddle, straightening up his back.

John Swift runs up behind Vico and trails him on foot down the street.

"Recorsails" Vico said.

"Recorsails?" said Swift, folding up his map and inserting it back into its tube.

Swift visualized Vico's feet as artichoke hearts for a moment, unable to control his imagination.

"Lexicography" Vico said.

Lord Godolphin, who has been observing the conversation from behind a nearby water trough, walks up to Vico and offers him an open casket of what he say's is wine. He notices the stars burning bright in the night sky above Vico's head. Swift could see that Lord Godolphin was wearing ladies under-garments and had a leather noose around his neck, unsuccessfully hidden beneath a poncho he was wearing.

"Come here, Godolph-FINN" Swift said.

"My saddle is my recorsails, and takes me into the planes ocean." Vico said.

Swift could see Vico flinching as he said "planes ocean" sure that he was unsure of that choice of words to describe the oceanic bliss of traveling upon planet earth.

"Water or land, what's the difference? to travel and be isolated by experience and language seems a steady constant, in my world" Vico said, making ripples on his forehead and starring directly at Lord Godolphin with a slightly demented look.

"Recorsails in my head blow onwards" Vico said, as Swift admired how Vico had managed to hide his broken arm from both him and Lord Godolphin, sustained from his recent philosophy lecture in Naples where he got lynched, again.

Vico kicked his leg over the saddle and slid down off his horse onto the floor giving a sigh of relief as he stretched forwards to touch the floor, his expression was noble and peaceful at once, yet he had an air of arrogance and pomp.


Ezra Pound thrust his arm back and forward slowly, exhausted and hungry yet still shadow fencing with the elements, staying fit in mind, but physically blinded by the relentless sun beating down.

Ezra's hand held onto a wooden stick wrapped by a thin piece of straw leading to his big toe, he was now playing shadow puppet games, to the delight of the army officers guarding him.

James Joyce, looks out from behind a tree at his friend Ez held captive in a hanging cage.

"Aluminium's" Ezra murmured.

"Allahmilleniums" Joyce said, in a whisper, unleashing the pigeons from a box, as planned.

Joyce mentally compared Pound's head to a pumpkin and sent that mental image to the pigeons flocking not far above the cage.

"Aluminium" Ezra said a little louder, and the pigeons 'cooed' as Ez looked up with a dizzy expression, wondering to himself if he might pass out again.

"CHINGLE MINGLE" Ezra Said with a wry smile.

Jim Angleton watched from the watch-tower as Pound danced in a drunken stupor looking upward to the blazing sun praying for clouds. Jim decided to take a vase of water to Ez in his cage, when he opened the door Jim saw the flock of pigeons surrounding Pound's figure which struck him as being very beautiful and meaningful. James Joyce could see that Jim had a Swastika tattooed into the crown of his head by using his shamanic powers to--see through--the eyes of a pigeon.

"I should be locked up in that cubehouse" Joyce said.

"The Aluminium, the final straw that connects the war profiteers!" Pound said.

Joyce could see clearly that Ez was cracking under the stress and conditions in the cage, but knew his resilience and stamina would prevail somehow, he hoped.

"Illuminated details, attention to the 'thing' under investigation, the object, the aluminium" Ez said, screwing his face up like a turtle.

"Aluminium and metal monopoly's bound like my feet" Ezra said, while Joyce gasped at the bloody bound mess that were his bound feet. 'Bastards', he thought.

Ezra leaps into the air, overcome with the feeling of joy and manages to wrap his bound feet around Jim's neck, bringing a nice feeling of relief to Ez's back as he hung there for a moment ,contemplating what to do next, but before he could do anything the pigeons descended into the cage like missiles from above, embedding themselves into Jim's head and turning his skull into punctured mellon. Covered in blood, Ezra sat still amidst the terribly mutilated remains of James Jesus Angleton and about twenty suicide-pigeons contemplating Mencius.


McJoy Brunosa stepped forward one more step towards the giant scales, his genius suspiciously dormant in his silence,
yet his thoughts sparkled like lightening bolts behind his eyelids, externally McJoy Brunosa struggled to make out the unbelievable scenery before him.

Brunosa's heart was projected as a 3D hologram onto a weighing scale that was balanced on the other side by nothing but an ostrich feather, the scale was spread out over McJoy Brunosa's shoulders. Large figures loomed in the background like overhead clouds obscuring the light.

Ezski Welleson stepped into the chamber about 10 feet from Brunosa and watched him hold up the scales on his back.

"Thothttott" Brunosa said, in a deep booming voice.

"Thothttott" Welleson replied, twisting his eyebrows through his long fingers.

Brunos'a shoulders were like curved bananas, slightly bruised and splitting; Ezski Welleson thought

"Thothttott" Brunosa said again, struggling to take the weight and stumbling on the spot.

"tale-of-the-tribe" Brunosa continues...

Shannico Yeatzscher crawled to the edge of the star-shaft, and poked his head out the end and drops the bag onto the floor. Yeatzscher jumps into the chamber, opens the bag to reveal an 'egyptian mouth-breeder' fish and quickly suckles the fish into Brunosa's mouth. Yeatzscher stares at a winged figure hovering in space a few inches above Brunosa's head. Welleson focuses his sights on Yeatzscher's tail tucked away in his trousers, 'the tail of the tribe' he thought, and smiled.

"I imagine my heart upon the scale, and guess the weight of the general heart, not lightly" Welleson said, gazing at the hieroglyphics carved into the walls that seemed to be depicting what was happening to them!

"Thothttott Language vs. the thothttott equation measured by these scales?" Brunosa said.

Welleson registered every wince and sigh that Brunosa made as his heart was interrogated and profiled by the great old ones.

'Maybe we have the body as a reliable object of scientific study, opposed to the 'imaginary' ideas of the mind?" Brunosa said, with a bewildered look of concern on his face.

'To weigh the general heart of history, the characters and their deeds, the thothttott; and transmit them into the headspace" Brunosa said.

Brunosa's shoulders shrug and touch his ears, and he sits, quiet, and self-composed like a stalk-headed monk


James Joyce places his huge chin on the optiscope several times before getting it in a comfortable position, Joyce had a great patience for things like this, unusual in writers like him, who was always careful to take his time and also due to his limited sight.

Joyce's arm connected to a patch that linked to the optiscope giving a readout to Joyce who could modify his pulse rate by using his hands to focus his vision through the optiscope, thereby creating a feedback mechanism.

"Allseeingeye" Joyce said, but it sounded like 'Oar-scene-nigh' to McLuhan, who had been infected by Joyce's hologrammic prose.

"Allseeingeye?" McLuahn said, inflating some balloons with helium next to Joyce.

Joyce's hands were like pea-pods sprouting out and over the optiscope, like tentacles, like crooked cables.

"Allseeingeye" Joyce says again, wit his mouth agape, starring into the eye-piece, his face white as snow.

"Illumination" Joyce harks,

Orson Welles dressed in a doctors uniform walks into the cubicle and puts an oxygen mask over Joyce's mouth, struck by a sudden sense of de Javu from the lions hanging from the ceiling on strings.

McLuhan notices a rabbits tail poking out from Dr Welles's hat that seems to magically merge right into his head like it had grew there naturally somehow.

"I once thought I might become a medical doctor like you Orson, and sometimes I wish I was 'right where your standing now" McLuhan said.

"The allseeing eye feedback optiscope can revolutionize the way humanity views itself" Joyce said in excitement.

McLuhan watched on helplessly as Joyce squinted and talked his sight out, without really seeing anything, he was playing up the doctors again, he thought.

"Up to know god, but still, the art of seeing is with eye and thou" Joyce said, slipping his eye-patch over his eye and grimacing like a pirate. "Ahaaa" Joyce roared.

"The censors can kiss my all-seeing-eye" Joyce said, tapping his rear end with a wooden spatula. McLuhan turning away when he noticed a rip in Joyce's breaches and some surprisingly long arse hair sticking out through the crinkly crevasse, like a cats whiskers coming from behind drawn curtains.

Joyce releases his arm patch with a graceful swiping rip that brings him a sigh of relief and relaxes his arm. In this relaxed state Joyce felt like Odysseus after his long voyage and return home.


Max's eyelashes brushed up and down on the surface of the writing tablet, his saw a mosaic of colors and shapes flash by as if Jimi Hendrix had chose the interior color scheme at Alhambra inside a gyroscope.

Max’s shin bones were pushing on a padded bar, that linked to the water pump that was filling up his head-chamber with gamma tea.

Plush smoothly roller-skates into the laboratory studio like a snake, watching Max conduct his gamma experiment.

“AILMS” said Max, gargling a little tea.

“AILMS?” Plush replied, fingering his ring and touching it to his breast.

Plush thought that Max’s eyes appeared as two large apples, seen through the transparent gamma tea cup.

“AILMS” Max said, shaking his head a little due to the cold tea now seeping into his ears.

“Share these seeds of love” Max went on, still pumping the chamber up with tea.

At that moment some seeds fell from an apple Percy was eating in the room next door, and he was prompted to get up from his desk, walk into the laboratory and hand the large half eaten apple to Max, who’s head had stopped shaking now, and sat with his hand neatly folded together patiently)

Plush detects the aroma of Marijuana and can see the pot baggy shaped like a long bud in Percy’s jeans.

I’ll be rolling with you in a tick Percy” said Plush.

Plush and Percy add the AILMS to the waterpump, and the gamma tea begins to heat up.

Plush could now see the tea working on Max.

“Gamma tea time works on the other sides of time, other side of the tea-leaf” said Max, pinching his lips and squinting his eyes.

Max scoops an AILM from the tea with his tongue, as Plush watches his hand spasm, shaking with over-concentration.

Max then lifts his legs right up and out from under the bar and brings them near his own mouth so that his shin bones are on his tongue, that is stretched out in a relaxed way. His expression was like Popeye after eating raw spinach.


The elliptical Ravioli hit Bob's Funny Bone with a phlump. Bob' was already laughing like a blunted Buddha while blinded by the blue cheese, mushrooms, pumpkin, artichoke and Tomato sauce--glossing his facial features and beard like chunks from JFK's noggin' when Hugh Montague probably gave the go ahead.

Bob's Hand pushed down on snake shaped latch firing the Lasagna cannon. Droplets of the rusty red tomato sauce sprayed over Bob's beard again as the lasagna levitated skyward. Kurt Vonnegut is at the other end of the kitchen peeping through his extraordinarily decorated periscope next to the cooker.

"Lasagna" cheers Bob.

"Ravioli" Vonnegut replied with a roar, firing his ravioli catapult while thinking how Bob's face looked like some kind of wombat that had been feeding on red fruit, covered in all that Ravioli and sauce.


"Keep the Lasagna levitating." sings Bob to the tune of Auld Lang Syne and licking his red lips with glee like a cat licking cream off his long whiskers.

"Keep the Ravioli in Orbit. So it goes and goes." Kurt echoed with a passionate and equal sincerity.

Leaning in through the Kitchen window, looking over Bob's shoulder, Norman hands Bob a Mouth Organ with a note attached that reads:'Lasagna' derived from the Greek. 'Lasanon' meaning 'chamber pot' 'Ravioli' from Italian verb 'Ravvolgere' meaning 'to wrap' 'Lasagne al forno' - oven-cooked Lasagna. --Norman

Kurt notices Norman's multi colored T-shirt that reads: "Auld Lasagna!...established by Francisco di Marco of Prato: 1408 e.v.

"Oh, to be outside this kitchen with Norman! Spinach and minced meat in myface and these Lasagna projectiles are hot as hell." Kurt bawled, wiping Bob's sauce from his lovely big droopy eyes.

"Loseyns' Trajectories Modified, Commence launch. RAW Lasagna!" Bob said, with a nasal accent satirizing some strange mission control center.

Kurt watches Bob entertaining himself, covered in cheese n' spinach, Tomato and pasta flakes, laughing in the slime, playful like a free infant.

"Chinese ravioli and tortellini collectively, are often referred to as Italian Jiaozi, according to uncle EZ." Bob said, with Santa's jolly smile.

"A Sufi that i once met called ravioli manti, Chogyam Trungpa refers to them as Momo, Ginsberg told me about the Jewish Kreplach, and Schroedinger called em Maultaschen." Bob added. Kurt and Norman turn and both watch the Ravioli sauce dripping off Bob's chin like luminescent volcanic lavafalls.

Bob moved his fingers from the catapult latch and quickly wiped the cosmic 'ragu debris' from his chin and beard again, as if psychically responding to Vonnegut's observation. Kurt looked like he'd seen a hungry Tibetan ghost and Bob looked like a cross between a Chinese Mystic and an old Irish bard from Sirius, they all looked up out the kitchen window at a shooting star.

Steven 'Fly Agaric 23' Pratt. Email to the Tribe 2010/11.