Pinata Reel Change

I am really not much better for my herring and succotash, hands shaking, hypertension swirling in circulation, feeling it behind my eyes. First she is in physical agony from her hip, father's sister, and when I ask what I can do, not meaning a damn word, she wants to hire Tim. Marie seems far more sold on Tim's insolence than I, and his rebuff, when I telephone him to query, "You know I'm here eleven to seven," indignant that I pitch extracurricular activity between the two of them, Italian crone and African road runner, and then "Call me back, it is urgent." She wants to be my long long long long sick uncle's attendant now, and there is one for independent living, Uncle Joseph, the Marinelli spit ball from my days as a child, my father's favorite pinata joke that my Roman Grandmother kept Quiet. I and my fourth cousin were the family spaz'es, and my youngest uncle was the off turd. Sometimes I wonder what Lillian the belle brought over from the old country. The fault more accurately resides with the patriarchal sperm of brow beaten grandfathers who died young. At least I tried to live a life, struggled to have victories and pride, vanquished now. Joe never did. Sat in his chair, sullen, anti-social. This distant fourth cousin, Richard, is a faithful ADAPT activist, marching to the orders of Cassie James Holdsworth and I, well, you hear the scathing acid of my disillusion, the hard erosion into the pathology of a broken imagination, hollowed demonic interior seething poison, or maybe you don't. I would like to email my first cousin, also Richard, a contractual release on his mother, then fly to Roma so riot policia can pock mark my ass with bird pellets, but of course I will instruct the old woman on what she needs to do, involuntary tremors jerking my shoulder blades. Call it a night.