The book belongs to the same lineage as Allen Ginsberg’s “Kaddish,” where the poet stands at the grave, eye buried, voice calling into Sheol. Like Ginsberg’s cawing cries and black-clouded Eye, Levi’s visions do not console; they demand presence.
...when I was first diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis at the age of 20, it really was a shock to the system. I’d been drawing and writing since childhood and art was always such a huge part of my identity.
She did not dare admit that she never considered ceiling repair a political act. She had never thought about the restorers who intentionally left the Russian bullet holes in the National Museum. She had never even cared.
The nerve of these negatives to claim to be real numbers like us. Why, in my day we never even heard of them. But there they go, moving into our neighborhood, brazenly carrying their minus signs in front of them like it’s a badge of honor.
Art was a 51-year-old Polish green card holder who had lived in the States since kindergarten, but the 2025 political climate was threatening enough that he felt compelled to secure his status.
I told of the hero’s kindness in pulling a thorn from a lion’s paw and was telling about the Roman emperor sending Christians to be eaten by lions when Sarah had a happy thought. “I would be safe,” she chirped brightly.
i feel like every single thing i did before reclaiming my title as a diarist was a serious injury to what i want to do as a writer. line breaks were broken bones slowing me down from grabbing the big belt which for me are volumes of anti-novels, serial essays, and notes.
