No one knows when he was born Did he really burn 7 novels? Tracked down to a post office He's taken off guard "Meet me in an hour at the pub" Shows up with two associates Well dressed with cufflinks He only presents himself as The representative of Cordwood Industries Everyone expects his prolific releases To suddenly end one day Like a serial killer In cold cases never solved If you've ordered from his P.O. box He knows where you sleep at night You've crossed the Rubicon Into his realm Your space is compromised as well He's creating new tuning systems Off the hum of your air conditioner The buzzing of your fridge He's built a simulacrum Of the universe The vibrations that make up All matter His output is relative To this music of the spheres Time like music Increasing 6 percent in cycles per second With every half step If you've done business With the representative Of Cordwood Industries He knows where you sleep At night