Based on a painting, "Nuclear Puppies", by Julie Nagel, 2001*

You’re a mutant, you know—
got funny dog babies sprouting
out of your head like they were
ears.  Those copies of your face

look up at a sky of ashy gray,
perked and tense.  Are you listening
to yourself?  What choir
of dog-eared deformities

sings to you?  Maybe they should have
howled louder before we dropped The Bomb.
Maybe the yellow caterwaul of their
melting butter bodies would have stayed our hand.

I doubt it though.  
This is what we do. We burn things.
We tinker, adding and subtracting until
what’s left is blasphemy—until what’s left is

you.  A yellow almost-dog, a sagging
body with melted flesh where there should
be fur. Sad monster; beg your alms
from the atomic Frankensteins who made you.

Your skyward eyes are bright, still happy
anywhere but here.  But your abominable
body lies here staring into gray space with
Alpo still sticky on your nose, wet, brown snow.

Atari clouds are digital ziggurats,
and rather minimal at that.
The sounds are Amiga.
Welcome to the eighties.

Your hair is big,
your clothes are odd,
and Nagel is a minor god.
Welcome to the eighties.

There is a plague
and ACT UP's rage,
but Reagan will not act his age.
For six years, he will say nothing.

Generation X gives birth to Y,
future hipsters to vilify.
All music is vinyl or cassette.
Rocks stars still wear epaulets.

There are two Coreys, podded peas.
Terrorists stay overseas.
Boy bands aren't quite yet in vogue.
Menudo carries a heavy load.

Ricky Martin is still straight.
Cimino ***** with Heaven's Gate.
Cindy Sherman is everyone.
Johnny Hinckley got his gun.

Welcome to the eighties.

Whenever I'm getting toasted like a bagel,
I hold my hits deep for Robert Nagel.
I can't believe that **** happened.
I know its real, but it feels like a fabel.

I feel real bad for the girlfriend,
Her heads probably spinning like a whirlwind.
There's not much I can say to take the pain away;
Just know He'll save you when the world ends.

They say the good die young.
Well how come?
C'mon fate,
Can we get a better outcome?

So I guess for now, we all pray.
We love you Rob.
Forever and Always.

Here's something that almost happened to me about 6 to 10 years ago give or take 6 to 10 years. I was working the day watch out of Hot Dog Division, my boss was Captain Wiener, my name's Wiener {no relative to Capt. Wiener} & I carry a bun.
   Slipping into my shorts after a long, hot shower...****! Using my special cup as catapult...Stupendous! Freeing the wacky Iraki people...Outstanding! --- It's with pig eyes what I see through.
   I dropped my pants in a dramatic gesture of boy scouting & cut one to scare off southerly attack. My nodules were hardened, my crisp zones fried toasty, my nasal cavities full of oxygen. If only ****** could be here I thought.
   Part of the problem with the government generally, the central part specifically, is their gentle, generous & forgiving nature. I never seen an official more so or special than one agent of specialty. Take the many, damage the few.
   “Help!” Yelled the frantic woman into the telephone.
“I've just been attacked by Conrad Nagel!”
   “Conrad Nagel? Are you sure?!”
   Nobody could ever be sure again. 700 Conrad
Nagel attacks later: “Help, I'm a reap victim!”
   “Who did this?!”
   “Cyrus McCormick: the reaper man!”
   --- 6 of 15 ***** agree: The anti-semitic writings of ****** bolster ****-eros. Some day I'll be appreciated for what I really am: a multi-faceted he-man. 14 agree: Lincoln's melancholia did nothing to curb his penchant for blood baths. In all the blue Earth & other violet planets of deluge there are droughts & set-backs. Cries of “a sand storm killed my mother” & “my grill friend can't get enough” {chef related} can be heard far & again.