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THE VAMPIRE responds to “Ten Feet Tall and Bulletproof at the Potluck” in Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet No. 30.

as dictated by THE VAMPIRE to THE NOVELIST

24998-cover-200x242VAMPIRE: It is true, of course, that VAMPIRES attend potlucks, present, as we also are, in train stations, the staging areas of distribution warehouses, priories, shopping malls (especially shopping malls), dentist’s offices (less often), garrets and garret-imaginaries or garret-subsidiaries, great and venerable libraries, coliseums, arcade parlors, bakeries, theaters and discotheques. VAMPIRES can be said to be nowhere, especially, even as we are simultaneously everywhere, particularly, and Friday in the park with middle management nearby (fluffing their anxious wings) is no exception.

VAMPIRES dictate gory sentences about potlucks to NOVELISTS, disdaining any direct act of writing. VAMPIRES make company nervous by announcing a savory dish brought in INDIVIDUAL RAMEKINS . . . a plush color. The grapes in Pan’s Labyrinth didn’t even look that good. Baroque eddies of fruit and flowers, VAMPIRES believe, are best suited to picnic tables.

VAMPIRES, like VEGANS, would prefer not to.

(THE NOVELIST would like a yam chipotle enchilada.)

The function of THE VAMPIRE at the corporate or collegial potluck is of a hieroglyph with tie pin. This chicken is so dry. Hello, I’ve heard so much about you. Will there be a round of Guitar Hero following the disappearance of the innocents? The hoagie is to be eaten with knife and fork, from the center moving swiftly outward in a V in either direction. At my home, you know . . . in Rialto . . . with the pair of wet-eyed cocker spaniels, Abelard and Heloise, and the lead pipe . . . I don’t have a job title as of yet, as my position is considered experimental . . .

VAMPIRES consider themselves unpopular but necessary, with the interruptive force of a hammer! Into the egg salads on leaves of endive!

It is considered impolite to compete directly with VAMPIRES, especially since our leisure time is without blemish. We have a perfect attendance record. The napkins were arranged in artful sequences, and it was time . . . for Twister . . .

A.B. Robinson lives in Western Massachusetts. Her poetry can be found in TINGE as well as Industial Lunch, which she currently co-edits. Her first chapbook, Dario Argento is not my Boyfriend, was selected as a jubilat contest winner. Five of her poems appear in Lady Churchill’s Wristlet No. 30, which is available DRM-free as a single issue or as a subscription.

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