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
Welcome.
Recline on one of our couches, upholstered in the finest silk we could have, imported from the Orient.
Take your pipe, filled with quality Afghan Poppy, and imbibe, while you listen to our house poets take you to transcendent realms with their words.
Should you feel so bold, feel free to pen a poem, or short story here, while you are under the beautiful duress of the midnight's oil.
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