I dreamed in cerulean. The churn underneath creation’s folly, the lisp in thinking aloud, the slow breath towards nebula. Because I did not speak until my seventh year, my day was all sky. In July 1969, around 1.00pm our time, the black and white television in the crowded classroom held out the hand of otherworld. In my fifteenth year, this stuttering breach of language around letters to avoid, stretched. The quiet is a choice, soundlessness was a place.
author of A short history of the universe in fold theory, ‘Neil Armstrong’s Three Stage Punctuation’ and ‘Hero of the Soviet Union, Twice’
I have no chronology. What are 67 years? That moon landing year my nickname was D-D-D-D Graph, a parabola point on a graph sheet. My age is tabular, out of context, I now live in a new millennium, a different century. Words are the proof of…
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James Walton Poetry 