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.
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 an expanding universe, this immeasurable growth, minds set to race; there is no structure over the human spirit because it has already left. I sleep less, but I go there willingly.
I fell in love. With the Milky Way, its Chagall catalogue, the goats of intrusion, that splurge of technique across the vacuity of rolling canvas, the opaque finishing where Laika, no longer waiting on Dimitri’s touch, could forgive the false pat, racing by, forever in orbit, escaping re-entry, out of a fearful whimper from the streets of Moscow, free from experiment, lasting
there within the nuptial universe. Fresh for belief.
I found our sentence. On this continent it was the twenty first day, ahead of the zone of others. Yet it was the same moment, the bend in the ellipse, the cross over. Separate things now contiguous, thought to voice to happening. The sounds to refrain from are music to others, yet they are all heard. So, I saw three men pass a dog, out of the leash of gravity, to a small step off world, look back at one planet, in its brief unity of blues.
Check out James’ reading of his poem ‘Neil Armstrong’s Three Stage Punctuation’ here.