In the fall I fell
In the fall I fell
In the fall I got back up
In the fall I will first tell you about the falling
In the fall everything I write is in the fall because it is fall right now
In the fall my facade fell
In the fall my walls fell
In the fall my pretense fell
In the fall I went to the hospitall
In the fall I was finally at long last so happy I couldn’t sleep so I went to the hospitall
In the fall I befriended and re-friended and of course, “friended” (on Facebook, obvi, boomers)
In the fall the baptismal waters of non-denominational spirituality fell over me
In the fall is a phrase unused in Australia
In the fall is my best friend M’s favorite time of year
In the fall she likes the pumpkins and colors
In the fall I also love los colores de las hojas de los árboles
In the fall hablo en espanol con unas personas en el hospital y la cafetería y la casa de mi amiga y las taquerías y es cómico porque en las taquerías he realizado en el fin que la persona puede hablar inglés entonces I could have spoken english those times but it was good para practicar anyways.
In the fall I had a turning point, obviously that’s as clear now as a Bachelorette finding “clarity”
In the fall I began to write poetry
In the fall I heard my own voice in my own head streaming my consciousness at full volume 4k 1080p
In the fall I made a pun about streaming consciousness and streaming video and streaming originally just means what a stream does (it streams)
In the fall I started streaming season 3 of Dickinson and in addition to LOVING it, I RELATED to it
In the fall I saw Emily muttering to herself, desperate to catch her own thoughts on paper like one catches a butterfly in a jar except much easier, so perhaps like catching a toad in the forest in your hand except without the peeing, so perhaps like making someone laugh it can be done frequently and it is special and common and wonderful and you want to keep it going, yes poetry is like comedy, even a good thought or insight about anything is like comedy, because it is the thing that you want and want a lot of, and can have and can have a lot of, with some focus, some effort, but simultaneously by letting go and being loose and free and at peace.
In the fall I realized that my poetry and insight analogy to comedy would go well on Conan’s podcast which I had listened to religiously among others.
In the fall I realized everything is eventually connected, even this poem and Conan O’Brien.
In the fall in Australia I missed the fall colors of New Jersey, its absence made my heart grow fonder.
In the fall in Australia I missed the things that Australians know not to miss like Aussie Rules Football (AFL, a sport of some kind with a ball) and horseracing and getting to Queensland in the dry season and a lot more that I don’t even know that I don’t know.
In the fall I wrote this poem first in my head while walking from Krauszer’s.
In the fall I knew that I might forget some of the lines I thought of while walking and didn’t record or write, but unlike fictional Emily Dickinson I knew that was okay to have some poetry just for myself for one moment that passes, that I lived and poeticized in the moment.
In the fall walking TO the corner store (going TO was before coming FROM) I had a poetic stream of consciousness without any clever poetic devices like rhyme or simile or metaphor nor any exquisite diction.
In the fall I tried to think what exquisite creative word can I use to describe fall or anything about it and I thought that of course the fall is when leaves fall and leave but what else?
In the fall I realized I have also changed but not one season really more like four seasons in a day I changed when I became manic (this is a reference to my former home Melbourne, because the weather there changes on a dime e.g. four seasons in a day).
In the fall I realized that my super-quick seasonal upheaval had started with winter (depression) then accelerated (spring) into a wonderful overly hypomanic mood (summer) that calmed down with medication (fall) and would someday likely repeat because I’m bipolar and that’s okay.
In the fall my fingers started cramping from typing this poem so fast.
In the fall there’s no end though, it simply slips and slides on mucky decaying leaves into bone-cold winter that hopefully brings some cheerful bright snow, perhaps with structural integrity for engineering snowmen and forts or perhaps just powder for sledding.
In the fall I thought that if fall doesn’t end then how can this poem end; am I so dedicated to the conceit, do I keep going until the winter solstice?
In the fall I let my fingers fall onto the keyboardlkdmldjldefjlaeskjfelkjfff9howfeivdjpiehvnKedhuv:NOSNHOg;vn’SON’LOIrgnv’pigjv’sKJ”
In the fall I hoped that joke made you smile, reader!
In the fall I wrote a poem for me and for you too, reader!
In the fall I realized I may not be Emily Dickinson but I can still write some poetry and enjoy hers with the considerable interpretive help of the Apple TV+ show inspired by it!
In the fall I realized that while she was inspired by Death and by Fame a lot (among other topics I’m dimly aware of), we are both inspired to assist others with our poetry, spreading some insight or feeling or flutter of hope that “it gets better” no matter whether “it” is, whether “it’s” one’s personal depression or the Civil War.
In the fall I already knew that Emily Dickinson was really something.
In the fall the thought befell me that so was I.
