Hey Man, Slow Down

Stuffed into a desk like over sized carry-on baggage-
sweating and vibrating dangerously
like Duke and adrenochrome.
"Yes! Fantastic! Finish the fucking story man-
what about the glands?"
Creaking in a chair,
fingers tapping furiously the Formica desk,
feet dancing wildly to the unheard rhythm of some song.
Eyes swelling, bulging, about to burst.
"Yes! Fantastic! Finish the story-
what about the glands?"
Clenched fist tension, sweating, though it's cold-
is it hot in here?
Lips bleeding from being chewed and tongued too long.
Skin on the top of the hand rubbing raw abrasive stubble.
Are you certain it's not hot in here?
Teeth grinding molar on molar,
boiling blood steam powering anxious scribbles.
"What about the glands?"
Sweating, sweating, sweating-is it hot in here?
No, it's just me.