No Such Thing as Mondays

this is more november
breath is waiting commute
behind tricks of little people
call them old technologies
a lost generation fond of drink
on used parts of eulogies
that resist invitation
when philadelphia is on fire
under changeless bowls of dust
so the threatening letters say
with the body of bob ross
awakens joints of the armies
there is a sweatshop five floors up
& a bar on every corner