You never read
the ultimate autobiography
which doesn’t exist unless
you live in an Oulipian world.
You can write up to the moment
Of your death, and we would,
if begrudgingly, conceded
the last moments incompleteness,
but you cannot write a true
and complete autobiography
without falling into the recursive abyss
where everything that you say
is suddenly autological
and the reader collapses in
on himself, a literary blackhole.


In the space
of a moment
a universe
can be engulfed,
light pours forth
from a black hole,
suns rise
over the event horizon,
space curves in
on itself
until it is yesterday.
Shrodinger’s cat
feasts on Albert’s twins
and the dice
are just
out                                                          of