Welcome to pogblog

Welcome to pogblog.     

     The adventure on our planet for the next six years is going to be an kaleidoscopic holo-ride of either fun or madness depending on how circus of glee (tightrope; juggling; clown) you manage to let your mind&heart&gut be.

        Pogblog articles speak to those mind-art tools and talents you’ll need to refine or to acquire to have a damn dazzling good time – or at least not let go of the edge of the cliff.
    Militant pacifism, Quantum Schools, obsidian humor, photonic physics & photonic ethics in the post-Quantum world, and the integration of lucid waking & lucid dreaming are leitmotifs of pogblog — all of which are explained in the articles.
   In its radical optimism, Pogblog is mostly for stuff, but is fierce against the reigning theofascism and the hypocrites who wield it. Organized Religions have grotesquely failed us. Cogism — or shrunken-heart corporate psychosis has failed us. We need to speak out about it. We need to squawk. 

I recommend that we embrace(& therefore defuse) their Talking Points' derisive description and say, “Yep, that pesky Far Looney Left Extremist Agenda is universal healthcare; a superb, public K-College education for every child; a treasured and revered environment; a robust living wage; and nationwide free wireless internet ultra-broadband.”

Please comment on articles & fables. Pogblog allows anonymous comments, tho having your handle is cool too. 

The threads on pogblog are on-going for various fables & articles. With few exceptions, articles & fables are valuable for any time. Please root around in the Archives. I hope what you find is very truffle for you – both the dark chocolate kind and the pungent fungusy kind. Most of the fables are under 800 words.

  Pogblog has an on-going Glossary for both the handful of coined (invented) words and for words some may be not so familiar with. And for bloody fun besides – pogblog is devoted to the language. If life allowed, I'd do pogblog's Glossary night & day. (On Main Page, on left under Topics, click pogblog’s Glossary.)

    Pogblog recommends that all fables & articles be read with the mouth as if out loud. If you try to skate across the fables with your eyes, they will resist you.

   If you read them with your mouth, they will work for you like magic. Try it. The fables were made very short so you would have time to read them with your mouth and taste the words.

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> Yours in the gamboling droll,



If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com


It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.


Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:




the pro-peace world begins today with you


construction began on the lucky date  05.05.05 
12 Cane  tzolkin 233  thursday  may
launch: 06.02.05  1 Alligator tzolkin 1   thursday  june

pogblog Annotated Index

pogblog Annotated Index .. in construction

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  We like to think that pogblog’s fables & letters are both timely and timeless. If you’re new to pogblog, we recommend rooting through the earlier fables & letters to give yourself a jolt. Please remember that all the fables are written to be read with your mouth as if out loud. If you try to skate over them with your eyes, they won’t work for you. This is liquid prose, not air prose.

   The annotated index is to give you some gists for navigating the pogblog world of radical themes. Pogblog is utterly opposed to opacity, so please check out pogblog’s extensive glossary(Main Page, mid-upper left) for a feast of lyric & fierce definitions of both coined and quirky pogblog words.

mango vow

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   mon gateau,

       I want to take the mango vow, to make, to search, to blossom the rest of my life to be as mango as is octessentially possible. I take the mango vow in addition to my vow of comedy: carpe comedy – seize comedy. I don’t do a lot of vows because they are so bloody hard to keep, but I am going to grok the hidden mango in everything. I’ll invite you to the Esfera Mango ceremony – the renaming of planet Earth to planet Mango: Esfera Mango. A nested planet with the old planet Earth, separated by one blink or by one mischief. (The measuring system is different on Mango; I’ll tell you more before the ceremony, but as you can imagine Alohaha and G.Ro Tesque are running me off my mango feet (I can still be a genius!!) getting ready for the mango mayhem to come. I sustain myself on mango mojitos. I only have time in this postcard to toss you a few tidbits, sweet heart. Ye owls, I miss you. I hate your trip to <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Eastern Europe. This exile from our Kingdom of Strange Mirth is harder than I let on. From seeing you every day to never seeing you is cruel & gulag punishment. I deal with it with my usual noble wry grace, my damned legendary cursed leitmotif, but that’s because I’m a genius at emotional alchemy-fu, not because I’m not fockall flayed. 

   In addition to the measuring system being different, they have fruit lights here – the juicy gold light of twilight is called pineapple light. Dawn is sometimes apple light, pale, silver, sweet tart.

   To get to Mango is just a knight’s move in your mind – one step to the left, two forward. There is only a divide of a semipermeable membrane – most of old Earth simply prevails, sails through, but there is a toxin marker like the color that shows up on marked bills in a rigged ransom handover which prevents the spread of pernicious mental diseases like religio-patrio-zeal.

   Everyone cheerful is issued one mango buck which will buy most anything continuously in a miracle of the mango buck, anything except projectile, noisy, or silent weapons or any Holy Books.

   Anyone can visit Mango who is light enough of heart – they only weigh your heart at the magic border – legerdecoeur & presto, you’re in.


o5.28.o5 11:o9:26/27 am 9 Owl tzol 256

for Fuller, a fablet

copyright flan 2005

Gwatwareg, a fable

o5.27.o5  8 Eagle tzol 255  2:o1:55 am  thurfri

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    Falling heels over head for Gwatwareg was dumb and dangerous. Like taking a shine to plutonium. Too hot and pitilessly radiant for the soul to survive. I knew that doom with a Damascus-keen clarity. A knowledge which slowed my plummet not one whit. The splat was going to be inevitable and gut-strewn; one could only hope to prolong the oh-I-understand-why-Leda-submitted freefall.

    By the way, the legendary Damascus steel alloy contained glass and other now-mystery elements, and it is said that a true <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Damascus sword edge can cut a waft of silk cloth in half before it falls to the ground.

    In the worlds of dark matter, my lucifer, Gwatwareg has invented, displays, inhabits a force after-magnetism, an exotic, erotic field within which I was transfixed. If holomusic were a fountain upon which one magic-carpetily floated, it felt like that – symphonically buoyant.

   It’s like in the ocean, all waves are attached to the whole sea, the mighty wave at Mavericks and the ripple in a fjord near the Artic Circle. His humor was an ocean like that with many moods and many beaches all at once. Perhaps I didn’t submit so much as I was immersed? Does a fish submit to the sea?

   All the flame in a forest fire, if you were within it, not the pain but the vermilion motion: In a vast forest of maples in the Spring, before the white man poisonously came, the sweet rising of all that sap: Gwatwareg was irresistible. It was more like photosynthesis than like magnetism, his alchemy: there was an exchange of sunlight for apples or buttered corn. He was a devil, the devil, and I denied him nothing. My soul was the least of it; the origami of my soul was the least of it.

   When the most ancient amoeba in an unbroken chain through all those aeons of midnights became me, I gave him all that evolution; that resolution; that luck.

   Under the ocean, in the rivers too there are at least three million, seven hundred & forty-three thousand pearls gleaming snugly in the odd gluck of oysters and all that pearl light is what illuminated the first night we made love after all the centuries of implacable rutting. He wanted a kind of terrible truth from you before you caught a unicorn-glimpse of his actual strange honor.

   He seemed made of darkness, of night, but then he moved and you saw he was a panther. He was feline. The droit de seigneur. The languor, the outright imperial laziness. His humor never missed the perfect quick attack. Falling heels over head for Gwatwareg was dumb and dangerous, but I never had a choice.



copyright flan 2005

o5.27.o5  8 Eagle tzol 255  2:o1:55 am  thurfri


gwatwareg means irony in Welsh;


Leda was a maiden in Greek story who was ravished by Zeus in the guise of a great swan most memorably immortalized in one of Yeats’ most famous poems, Leda & the Swan:  


A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
                                        Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

William Butler Yeats


Trawler, a book

Trawler by Redmond O'Hanlon — 'The earth is 80% sea' & we know all but nothing about this massive kingdom.  You will learn to revere weird fish and the watery abysses with vastly more knowledge in both your heart and your mind than you have today. I not only loved the book because it was nourishing, O'Hanlon writes so damn well, it was a treat, a smashing big piece of cherry pie to read.  <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />

Field Notes on the Compassionate Life .. Barasch

05.24.05  5 Rattlesnake Tooth tzolkin 252

   I'll write up more for you soon, but wanted you to have the basic info.
   The beloved community, but not the cotton-candy version; not Norman Rockwell's cover of Saturday Evening Post; maudlin Barasch ain't
   Barasch begins his book with “I'm grateful that thorns have roses” (Alphone Karr). That nifty twist & truth will keep happening to you as you read Field Notes.
   I went to a lecture he gave at East West Bookshop a month ago & he's the real deal. Funny, self-effacing. Especially wry about how damned peskily hard it is to be good. 
    This will be one of your top five books. The guy can sling a sentence. You'll hug yourself at the deftly nifty writing. What makes him so marvellously convincing is that he's so flawed, not as a writer, but as just another bloke earnestly trying to be better. This will educate and encourage you Perfect present for anyone.

James Fuller the Fortunate

James Fuller the Fortunate

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    Fuller. Yeah. Well. I met the fiend about eight years ago in a used bookstore by the Borges shelf. Even though it should have been obvious – because not every guy groks both Borges and cats, but as I am almost as direct a proportion a recluse in my private sphere as I am flamboyant in my public life, it was not heels over head at first sight.

   In retrospect, he did look the part of my future fiend. He’s a lanky 6’1” (& ½, he says); unruly straightish chocolate hair; brown eyes in which it’s hard for the uninitiated to read the feast of mischief; most annoyingly, he has thick black eyelashes. Stupid cow! How does he get those? He’s a jumble of Celtic bloods with one unexpected Guatemalan grandmother tossed in there. He’ll be 36 in mid-September. The relationship is impossible. Along the slow, increasingly obsidianly hilarious way, I became irrevocably smitten. Does it matter that he’s tall, dark, and handsome? Maybe. It matters that he’s the funniest man to ever touch down on the planet.

    Fuller seeped into my bloodstream stealthily. It took years of odd friendship for me to get that he was the hemoglobin, the essential alchemic stuff, in my blood. Luck likes him too because he is so diabolically amusing, and she always falls for wry.

     For drolls, he plays keyboard in a commercially-failed (tho, vrai, you couldn’t actually say it prevailed enough to fail …) but earnest band called The Tikals. His gargoyle humor ain’t for the squeamish. Most of my friends specialize in harsh & horrible humor, hallelujah, but Fuller is the royal flush, sans toot doot.

Point Lobos, burn-your-throat truth

o5.14.o5  8 Wind  tzol 242  sat   <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />11:42:o8 pm

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    Point Lobos is where the gods invite you to visit so you can learn about green and about blue. You go to the Louvre or Bilbao or NYMoma to see humans paint and sculpt. You go to Point Lobos to see the gods rip your brain open in a dream of dreams. Point Lobos is where the gigantic ocean meets the gigantic continent and you are standing in that zone of awe where the raw, distilled, brandy burn-your-throat truth is clarified. Where you aren’t gonna be the same no more.

    I wasn’t swayed because at Devil’s Cauldron the sea is indigo and the dark luminous turquoise of your eyes when you’re glad. I wished I could be grateful enough for being inside this radiant scudding painting with pale grey-green feathery California sage. With cormorants landing in the Sea Lion Cove skipping like stones in snatches of white on the cobalt water as they came in to land. Dozens and hundreds of them diving in 30 seconds or 8 seconds to gather just the best piece of kelp for the nests they are building now in early May. They are black streamlined birds, bullets with wings.

    On the way to Devil’s Cauldron near an offshore underwater canyon bigger and deeper than the Grand Canyon, there is poison hemlock with a white doily of tiny white flowers which looks like the Queen Anne’s Lace flowers in the East. The only way to tell it from the nearby benign yarrow is that the poison hemlock has purple spots on its stem, the ‘blood of Socrates.’ The plants here at the edge of the continent where the ocean batters and sloshes are tough. They have earned their peculiar beauty. This is not a place for the timid. On the way to Sea Lion Cove and Devil’s Cauldron, with their rounded igneous granodiorite gray and black rocks and the jutting and fissured carmelo formation caramel and strawberry syrup colored melted sandstone rocks, are rattle snake grass; apricot-colored sticky monkey flowers; lizard tail; hedge nettle; pearly everlasting; bright silver soft-leafed beach sagewort. When you get to the cove, you are on rocks above the seagulls and the iridescent swallows who the French call hirondelles, looking down with slight vertigo on their sunstruck wings. We do not expect to be above birds.

    You are overwhelmed both suddenly and slowly. You are buffeted in your capitulating mind between the outrageous grand and the startling small secrets. The stupid habitual encrusted tediums of the workaday world are being sculpted off you by cruel and tender gods set upon your release; upon your permanent devotion; upon your ungrudging love. You are walking and waking in a terrible and wild dream – which doesn’t need you at all, has been seals and cormorants and lace lichen and seaside painted cup and sky lupine and gray loco weed for a million years, and yet too it wants you to caress it with your noticing, your devoted noticing. You begin the day cool – impressed some perhaps but still in control. A few hours later, you know that control is absurd, petty, irrelevant. The square-stemmed wood mint, the miner’s lettuce, the bull kelp, the beach morning glory, the witches teeth, the carefully folded white globe lily and the blue-eyed grass have conspired with the flicker of the black lizard and the gray lizard and the round-eared small rabbit to win your hardened heart.

     An otter’s pelt is the softest densest fur on Earth. They have no blubber so depend on this fur to keep them snug in the frigid North Coast waters. (The frequent fog is caused by a warm inland day hitting the cold air upwelling off shore from the immense Carmel Bay and Monterey underwater canyons which are up to 7000 feet deep. My day was a glory of sun.) When I touched an otter’s pelt for the first time, my knees went weak – it was so soft and thick, it was the gelato of  fur, thick and sweet. But warm inherently, like the heart of Baldar who can do no harm. A group of otters is called a ‘raft of otters.’ They spend a third of the day eating, a third napping, and a third grooming the magic fur. They eat abalone. They each carry their special shellfish- bashing rock under their arm. I watched three of them lie on a sloshing huge bed of fox-colored giant kelp. They lie on their backs lounging on the bosomy swells of the sea. I want more otter in the life of our planet. Snacking and napping. (There is a Greek word for a glorious day: halcyon. A halcyon day is the kind of sweet day in which a kingfisher can make her nest upon the bosom of the sea. Or an otter can bask and nap.)

   There is a primeval forest at one end of the park. The Monterey Cypress are surpassingly strange with their odd flat silver trunks, all twist and tilt, and black green leaf-needles. They are older than the invention of the United States. They belong to the Ohlone Indians. I think they may be the Ohlone Indian shamans who wait for the imperially stupid white man to get cured of psychic sicknesses worse than the virulent physical diseases he also brought to these patient and glorious shores. The Cypress forest is so eerie and haunted; one is constantly brushed quite distinctly by the unseen. These ancestors are not unfriendly. I’m sure that if you were there alone on a moonlit night, you could see them in substance, if you were filled with respect.

    I haven’t even gotten yet to the ribbon-candy sky and the more colors of water than you have ever seen or dreamed. Or the sagey, chapparal, salty smells. Or the sounds of the percussions and hisses and rumbles, near and far: the rattlesnake grasses; the fierce Scylla& Charybdis whirlpools; the barking of the lobos marinos or sea wolves or sea lions; the petulant squawks of the baby seals. The mosaic of magic of Point Lobos is the legerdemain of the gods who smell like strawberries. 


copyright pogblog 2005

for jamie fuller, a fable

50.5% Crazy


50.5 % Crazy

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   People say in times of high stress, “I’m half-crazy.” I say to you that you need to be 50.5% crazy to dare to seriously begin a true comic resistance to the dawning yawning fascism. To dare to do one step against it. Do one .5 extra crazy thing. Shift from CocoPuffs to Fruit Loops. Make a subversive gesture.

    My pal who is 99.314% crazy (he can handle it) says that rut-resisting can be simple in the beginning. When you park at work, instead of parking on the side of the building, park on the front of the building. This mild jolt can change a lot. (I heard someone suggest once that if you parked five minutes from work, at least you’d get ten minutes of exercise every day.) But here we’re talking about dedicating your first subversive act against the fascism, the present chilling alliance amongst church, state, and corporations, sadly all soulless in these cadaveric times.

    Remember at the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Alamo, William Barret Travis drew a line in the sand. We are defending a wider kinder freedom now, disciples of merriment. A freedom from the oppressions of Creed, Greed, and Breed, the three pitiless horsepersons of the apokalypsis. You need to take your first .5 blessedly ridiculous, subversive step across the slightly-more-crazy line. Do something special and quirky or quaint to you. Dedicate it to the lighter, jollier, sillier, sweeter life in which we don’t join our funds to make atrocious weapons to blow legs off eight-year olds in Iraq. As an hasyasattva or silliness warrior, increase the gladness of all sentient beings by a groat or two groats.

    The way that a butterfly (I always thought flutterby was a better name) lands on a flower is the hieroglyph of the word deft. We must become deftly mad. Right now. Swiftly and deftly mad. If you think you prefer the comfort of being a lemming, do remember that the cliff edge is near and will suddenly appear. You are already indirectly participating in horrible acts. Immense tax cuts for the revoltingly rich and we have no universal single-payer health care. This is a not-so-distant evil from your door, pilgrim. We need more squawking. A vote is a squawk. Friends don’t let friends vote Republican. Friends make friends vote. But the key to changing from a ‘good American’ who stands by, who complies with the evil of others, is to begin to feather by feather build your wings of subversion until like a wiser Icarus you can fly from the charnel prison they are slowly making America into.

    The ‘boiled frog’ example is horrible and I almost apologize for your offended sensibilities. (If you’re very squeamish, skip down to the next paragraph.) If you throw a frog into boiling water it will leap out. If you put a frog into cool water and bring the water to a boil, the frog will complacently allow itself to be boiled to death. We are frogs in damn hot water, but it crept up on us the temperature change and we get used to the daily outrages. Oh, another outrage, ho hum, hum ho.

    The Path of Ridicule, the Ridicule Way, the Way of the Mirth Warrior, here lies a crazy sanity that can last, and  proceeding in a mirththirsty way is something we will be able to look back on and be proud of. We won’t have the horrible secret grotesque festering regrets that the killers of earlier wars harbor against their not-sweet dreams. You will get strong as you practice the kung fun of small subversive mirths. Do something deftly daft today. Begin.  



 copyright flan 2005 all rights reserved

for fuller

Agents, Patrons, Allies, Hotshots, Links

Agents, Patrons, Allies, Hotshots, Links   

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Pogblog really wants to get the fables and

ToadSpawn, Be Gone! the Exorcizm of GeorgeBush from America's Soul also published in book form.

There is a great deal of material not on the blog.

I  want to end up with the best blogsite in the galaxy.


 If you can help with the agent or publisher book-publishing contacts


can donate time/expertise toward blog design

please email me at pogblog@yahoo.com.


Pogblog would be a book-tour dream come true. She is utterly, even otterly comfortable on tv. She’s done more than 70 of her own improv & fable performance shows. She’s a ‘natural,’ they say. Pogblog’s also available to lecture, to seminar – 50 or 50,000 people, no stage fright. It’s like those high-steel Mohawks who built the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Empire State building in New York City – no vertigo.  


Patrons. From Shakespeare to Blake, once upon a time, individual artists were supported by patrons. Tho my drug of choice is air (the supply is constant; the price is right; the side effects benign), pogblog has (still) to eat food from the supermercado. If you’ve got spare small, large dosh or cash, please donate to pogblog so I can keep the blogsite going.


Allies. If you think you’ve got a good practical idea to share with pogblog about getting this stuff out & about, email pogblog@yahoo.com. Need all the help I can get.


Please tell as many people as possible about pogblog. (They can just enter pogblog  in yahoo search).

And link to http://pogblog.myblogsite.com. Below please find an invitation to pogblog that you can copy & paste into an email. Thank you for your help so much!


You are Invited to pogblog:

   I would be honored if you’d forward this email to as many friends as possible with one caveat – as extremely delighted & keen as pogblog is about the treasures of our Planet, it is also extremely harsh about political and organized Religion hypocrisies, and if that would distress some friend, don’t send it to them. Otherwise, welcome to pogblog land & enjoy. (Unlike a lot of blogs, it isn’t only the top entry that counts – all the fables both brazen & gentle are relevant, & we recommend that you root thru them until you’ve read them all.) It would be so cool if you would Comment and/or Subscribe. Glad & grateful, pogblog


pogblog  — at last!


“.. an alloy of platinum and plutonium, from fierce to lyrical, startlingly original, blissfully blasphemous,

pogblog will knock your socks off ..”


Do you  champion

the separation of church & state?

Separation of state & Rove?


Do you hate the theo-fascism rising?


Are you curious about 22nd century

consciousness when lucid waking &

lucid dreaming will be integrated?



Check out the radical optimism, the obsidian hilarity, the gargoyle irony of pogblog.