In Memory of Roger Ebert (1942-2013)

(A found poem based on his last blog post, written the day before he died)

by Josh Medsker

Through articles, books, 
I admired film.

Now, I am the universal film,
Some part critic,
some… part of a...
separate entity.
Some 1967...'77
some now.

Now I will be able to 
be me, or you…
or a film, brilliant and

Thank you all,

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4-Painting Series

by Daniella Michaels

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Scales Film Project: Something Similar to Minor Triads in F


Our second Scale film, from Adam1 Leibowitz

Scales Film Project


To present a coordinated study of the inspiration of limitations, the relationship between sound and image, and the process of interpretation. To encourage experimentation with the audio/visual medium through a guided challenge, and the chance to share the results of ones work.


1. Each film must be set to the progress of a musical scale
2. Each film must be between 8 seconds and 8 minutes long
3. Each change of note must coincide with a significant change in the film

contact us at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it. with interest in participating

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Three Poems

by George Zamalea





I saw the eyes of 'Ever-Again' as I was

          Passing in front of C.'s house,

Colorless and deep, against the morning of May

          Looking left and right, with unwished waves,

A dog named 'Ever-Again', his woeful

          Task remains, who runs away.


Arousing at length my curiosities, innocently

          Of course, while at the same time,

My heart designed to live, learning

          He was dying, and 'Ever-Again', who went

To C.'s house, and who starts dying there,

          And the people from C.'s house have known him

As 'Ever-Again'.


For none of these gentlemen dared,

          Or, busy as they were, took time to think

For a moment about 'Ever-Again', who went back and forth

          To C.'s house, and who was already

Dead; everybody was astonished at

          How this happened to ‘Ever-Again'.





I did what the regular

          Jupiter has done with the rat

And the monkey, said the useless

          Brawnier under the stigmatic era, eaten them by tail,

Where the men and women are just unbreastless

          In the growing whirl of useless love.


He brings the rat to the lab

          And the monkey to the cage.

Rat looks at him: "Miserable! Bizarre sin!

          I'm the monkey when beauty's genius

And the carnality of the franks does not have

          The vigor of fire and of the night caravan.

I'm supposed to be there, where the fragrance

          Of the lustful hole whose darkness

Has no respect for living, the shape

          Of the moon with windowless witches!"


"You are, beast! You must be there.

          And you will find it easier

Between anxious coition and the odorous

          Crepitation of such wedding sense

Of being smart with lovely thing, that each

          Coffin will send the same belly of such answer."


Monkey, jumping over stove and stove,

          Then with the high gas behind him and passion

Written against the wall, finds his words

          At last, “I’m the rat! The oozing blaze

Where the public decomposition beats down

          My grass that voluptuous lips kiss

Whose freak sounds grimace along their pleasure.

          I’m the rat, tomorrow or ever, and I’m supposed

To be here.”


          “You are not! You must be there.”

And between the liquid of living and thirsty love,

          The honey-bee sweeps over and the quaver

Madness dredged from his eyes strangely. “If you

          Ought to be there, then beat it! Bring me

The reason sculpted by rapturous heart

          And push then the peaceful misgiving of this last call

Made from hell!”





They killed him running

          Naked down the street

When a man next to me asked what



I thought to answer until

          The sun obscured me without slashing

The last words, and I thought

          I was still sleeping

With joined hands and muscles

          In front of a leading mass.


I am still thinking. Can I answer

          Him as a teacher to a student

In a restless room with the dreamy dreams

          That were once a part

Of the hunting? Of course I should.


          I closed my broken mouth

And put a hand on his shoulder:

          Can you feel me? The whole body

Shaken and I know he got the message.

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Three Poems

by Ben Nardolilli

Collagraph Hill

A code is tabled up in the sky that we live out,

Bright suns of night mixed with the stretches

Of days which only shadows occupy,

Against the brick walls we rest or plot or scream

In accordance with the symbolism that drifts

Over the cracked horizon of our buildings’ decline.

Certain days we find full support and open streets,

With doors that are capable of moving aside

Through the expert notions of our knives,

Red reigns violently and we pay tribute with kicks

And slammed trashcans rolling in the alleys,

The moon then contributes its neon to our delinquency.

Sky, save us from the lull which brings stagnation,

Drags us coughing down the sidewalks

And across privately owned panels of hardwood,

Whatever is up there signaling, break the code

To keep the lights burning for each hour,

All the lightning you can manage for us, send it down.

Raku Rare

Trying to make something out of this moonlight,

Since the orb produces no music like a speaker,

I find blue seas, fallen skies, atmospheres

Down on their luck and pending for a renewal,

I notice a halo and see a face in between

The trees unable to show its features over branches.

All I can offer is a knot that bends into itself,

In love with its own dark complications,

A composition reaching out for illusions of space

But really just making more loops for itself

To keep whatever spirit it possesses

From leaking out through the grand gutter ahead.


Planes of movement are closed off bus routes

Are being carved out of the darkness,

The pearl in the sky gives off enough of a glare 

To show me where the sidewalks begin

And where there are spaces to walk with no cars

Trying to shake the asphalt under me into pieces.

Days of Morning


We lay our ribcages down side
By side and stare up at the ceiling,
Like ships docked in place,
We are ready to receive the cargo

Of a new day which cracks a dawn
Across the eggshell white
Maximum height of the shared room,
One day we may call this a cell

Look, but more importantly, listen,
I treat my time with you as a donation
Towards a more permanent union
And an American lung association.

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