Randolph Pfaff

Randolph Pfaff is a writer and visual artist. He edits a lit mag called apt. He lives in Boston. 


Two Poems (September 20, 2011. Issue 31.)

Party City

It is the all-obscuring presence of felicitous
crinoline bunting that calls into question
your motives for bringing me here.

It is balloons and bright colors and an unyielding
sense of underlying and overwhelming drowsiness
that pervades all of our senses.

It is a chink in the chainmail vest of your
voice and a worrisome silence when
the disquieting music begins.

It is laughter, then smiling, awkward
circular emotions like whispers of bubbles
burst forth from a cup.

It is the here and now and the there
and then and when we leave this place,
you'll miss me goodnight.

French Creek

It must be a trick of the eye because when I last looked the number of letters and numbers you let in looked a mess all across the kitchen floor in that tiny house out in the countryside.

And you, a pilgrim, with buckled shoes so bright black, with a dress, a suit, a costume worn to a party filled with strangers filing in from all directions and a glass broken like a metaphor or simile and you smile because you hate those constructs.

Regressions are geared toward standard measurements with tools they invented in times past when tools did not exist in the forms we know now with the names we've invented because the names are our innovation.

We do a quick pick up of things fallen from the trees in the orchard near the clearing where a mouth's shape cleared in the day's dawn while we wandered, star-bright, in a paralysis of all we sought and discovered and returned to its rightful place in our unnatural order.

The Legendary