take your fuckin fifty and shove it up your ass, or asses, as the case may be. and don't expect an explanation, unless you want a formal memo just like the one you sent to me—you already know how good i can be at those. (wink, wink.) you really do not give a shit—perhaps you want to; perhaps you actually think you do. And perhaps there is no other profitable way—in this world, and in this life—to care, than the way that you do it; the insulated touch, the condescending 'i care,' the payoff (wink wink) with a fuckin fifty. i won't compound the crime by giving my assent to your lie. take it back.
i care no more than you do; i never expected anything more of myself than that, but i did expect more from you. that, i know, is a prima facie injustice, and though it is inflicted against entrenched authority by a disenfranchised soul, it is still wrong. so, i guess it is all my fault after all. i should be grateful, or pretend i am. i should just take the fifty and shove it up my ass; i know exactly who to give it to for that purpose—i have some old phone numbers... only fifty doesn't get you what it used to, anymore.
my friends at work hear the rumblings. they understand my rage, they know they cannot see where it might end. so, sensibly, they encourage a continued peace, they passively discourage any eruptions, vaguely fearing something primitive and ancient—a force out of control. "ahh, just keep it," they say dismissively, with, i suspect, an acute awareness of the eruption threatening to break through. they hope, for lack of any other option, that my rage—the roaring ocean of incandescent lava locked inside of me—will remain entrapped and contained; a devastation, pressurized. their logic, also primitive and ancient, is that of tossing virgins to volcanoes.
"ahh, just keep it," they say, because they know there is no telling what might happen if i toss it back.
all the trees stand almost still, in perfect, silent exultation, and they know—or, they don't care to know—what comes next.
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