R. Nemo Hill lives in New York City, but travels extensively in Southeast Asia each year, where his experiences have run the gamut from intestinal bleeding to intellectual ecstasy. His poetry and fiction have appeared in online venues such as The Chimaera, Measure, Poetry, Sulfur, Smartish Pace, and The Shit Creek Review. He is the author of a novel, Pilgrim’s Feather, a narrative poem, The Strange Music of Erich Zann, and a chapbook, Prolegomena To An Essay On Satire
Visit R. Nemo Hill’s travel journal.
More from The Journal
I have fallen in love with winter, /
with the day that ends at 3:45 in the afternoon. //
with the man striding along the path grasping /
a pink plastic bag that glows incandescent /
although it only contains dish soap /
and the cat food he carries home after work …
...you wonder again about the soul, /
Where it hides, where it ventures. /
There's always one you have to bring to oblivion...
I wanted to be gray-faced /
and hated by the Yankees /
in the suburbs past Carleton.
Once he’d made the long, impetuous trip, /
once we were there, evening air billowing my skirt /
over the Pacific, surf sweeping like brushes over drums, /
I knew we’d marry.
By Kris Spencer
I lived by a river with tides unresolved /
Under the house a sewer under a wooden board it ran /
Sometimes a tapping sometimes a hum in the night like a motor
By Christopher Chambers
and I dream of a young woman from Prague /
standing beside a red motorcycle as if so much /
depended upon it...
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