jeffrey skinner

Many Worlds


A physicist proposes time does not exist, only an infinite number of dramas, grand or banal, in different locations: a Wyoming ant hefts a leaf and begins the blind trek home. Nancy nicks her thumb chopping arugula in Manhattan. Sheets of rain batter the empty head of a seagull hunkered down amid blonde grasses. A Sudanese teenager takes the first of nineteen steps toward a landmine he will, or will not, trip with his left foot. A star in a tri-folded galaxy sputters and implodes. And so forth, ad infinitum. I read about this while drinking a steaming hot Columbian blend on the day we call, for convenience sake, Sunday.

But if there is no time, I wonder as I take another sip, why do I keep needing stronger glasses? And, if time is to be summarily tossed onto some landfill, wouldn’t we be wise to hire a caretaker, an experienced force to guard the perimeter? One would not want the Spanish Inquisition leaking into Stonington, for example, where I currently reside. And I do not like to imagine walking the frozen streets of Buffalo, New York, and bumping into myself at the age of two, bundled in my mother’s arms as she hurries me into the hospital, my appendix burst, my time running out.

How immediately I bend the poor physicist’s notion to my own fears and wishes … Why must I understand every idea in terms of myself, my own little life and death? In all probability I misunderstand him completely and do not, as usual, know what I’m talking about.I wish I could step outside, into one of the many worlds to the left and right of me. The boy recovered, in time, and lived. But if time does not exist then why, as I continue sipping, does my sorrow deepen?

From The American Poetry Review.

jeffrey skinner

Kafka, Women

We went to buy furniture in Berlin. When I am kind,
Felice approaches. I fumble for the door. I suggest the axe
of marriage. This illness, feeling its way inside me.
Heavy furniture that looked as if, once in position, it
could never be moved. Grete, come to
the hotel, we will make plans. There’s never this kind
of trouble at the brothel. Without my head
I would not be lonely. But it is so crowded, knocking
at my skull. Felice, I am ruin. The sideboard in particular—
a perfect tombstone, or a memorial to the life of a Prague official.
Do you love me, a little? I can obey everything,
except what is demanded. If during our visit to the furniture store
a funeral bell had begun tolling in the distance
it would not have been inappropriate. How can I write
amid the noise and smell of human bodies?
The dress you wear in my mind is disappearing.
Still I cannot see you with clarity. What have you done
with your gift of sex? Disease has taken up residence,
soon there will be no room for Franz. I yield not a particle
of my demand for a fantastic life. Marry me, Felice.
Save me. Leave me alone.


from connotationpress.com

jeffrey skinner

The Experiment

I sewed my father into a specially designed, handmade bear suit. He was indistinguishable from a real bear, and yet retained the necessary functions of a human. I also provided a GPS radio collar. Then I air-dropped him into a densely forested preserve. When I returned a year later I found he had mated with an Asian black bear. He and she and their two cubs lived a quiet life in a mountain cave.

After sharing a meal of berries and honey and wild piglets I asked to speak to my father in private. He led me on a path away from the cave to the edge of a cliff. This view of surrounding mountains and rivers and forest is magnificent … “Yes, it is,” he said. “What, you can read minds now?” I said. “A small trick for a bear, as it turns out.”

I thought this over for a moment; but it did not change my purpose. “Dad,” I said, “it’s time to go home. The experiment is over.” He stared at me with his great, incongruous blue eyes and bear face, and said, “No.” “Yes.” “No.” “Yes.” “NO!” he said finally and swatted a nearby douglas fir with one paw. The tree flew several yards over my head and came to rest in the snow, dirt trickling from its upended roots.

“It’s been good to see you,” I said, and rose. “Same here,” he said and also stood, “but I think it best if you didn’t come back.” I agreed, and held wide my arms for a goodbye embrace. I could hear and feel the cracking of my ribs, which I consoled myself would heal completely in time. “Don’t tell your mother,” he said. “In fact, tell her I’ve died.” “Well, you are dead, aren’t you?” “Yes,” he said, and scampered up the path with surprising agility, on all fours.

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