From The Collected Writings of Joe Brainard, edited by Ron Padgett, published in April by the Library of America. Brainard died in 1994.

Mozart is coming out of the machine—real soft—just for company. Like that of a cat, in a room. A bright red Campari and soda sits off to my right, just within arm’s reach. A moment away from the ashtray: a deep blue enameled disk, inlaid with a sliver of white moon and sprinkled with silver specks of something, to represent the stars. All somewhat obscured by three cigarette butts, snuggled up close together⁠—spoon-⁠style—that each say