Noah Smits Poems

By chance
By a roll of a three on a sphere
you were here.
Something came out of nothing
...

Death is life friendless, one's spirit afloat
in a quarantined ether, still conscious but still
The moments all captured, the stories all wrote
and the memories linger, impossible to kill
...

The highest form of art
is a man masturbating
in a street-corner outside a bar
and he zips up and turns
...

My future is vague at the flux of this trouble—
a puddle, it ripples with each splashing drop—
fear locks me in place yet my eyes dart and swivel
at muddled gray middles of converging chance—
...

I will not let this winter chill me to my core
in spite of icy gusts that shake my cabin door
and threaten boldly with their cold
to whisk me back to days of old
...

Sick souls, six billion of them,
stand pat
with a like mindset
of a coal-black gnat
...

Hot rice
on a cold day
January twelfth
with spice
...

No one has ever been conscious and female
No one has ever been conscious and bald
No one has eaten an olive and liked it
No one has been to Nepal
...

Hear ye the echoes off the height of the balcony,
The frigid vibrations down the spiralling stairs.
Hear the melancholy glide through the mahogany;
Dark shapes, open spaces, entwined in affairs.
...

If God comes like a thief in the night
Why do we see his fingerprints?
Toss me the phlogiston—I'll make it right
My world'll be a place without hints
...