The actress imploding in the strobed flash
of fame. Or the universe expanding, fat
with stars, showering down pinprick pulses

onto the Very Large Array, scattered
with sagebrush and defense dollars. Angle
of twist, angle of assault, in raking

light of print, flowers into breakfast
poppy, bright bulb’d coffee, a narcotic
of facts. The mean dance craze, untethered

astronauts, faulty Christmas lighting spark
jolly headlines bellying their gifts of good
and bad in measured doses. If it bleeds, it leads.

Cozy heartwrench of moms breast-feeding babies
crack, gap-toothed smiling toddlers falling
off roofs (shoved?), a high school winning streak

of gaudy soccer: come one, come all, mingle.
Turn the knife over morning’s warm muffin
or shoes-off scotch. Bleed photos and fill dead

air. Freeze the market’s dead-cat bounce and gush
fountains of guesswork on layoffs, key rates
of interest and disinterest, while surveying

space for the deeply personal, like poets
driving wives to suicide—Extra! Extra!
Not One, But Two!—in self-cleaning ovens.