Tuesday poem: My lover Jim November 5, 2012 My lover Jim is ramrod straight, and flexible as steel. Once he's on top, it's hard to make him shift. He makes me sigh, and grunt and feel pain, though sometimes I can just lift him before he renders me 2D. I have swooned and swallowed blood. Nausea breaks like a fainting sea, and I have to stop before it floods. My legs at such weird wide angles kicking the heavy sky; or squats: my hair sweated into ratty tangles, and arms tied in barbarous knots. Knees squeak like fearful rodents in the famous verse by Burns, Robbie as I scythe myself into components. He's more an addiction than just a hobby. Jim's real charms show up in rear view when I'm alone with a looking glass -- four times a week between one, and two, makes miracles of muscle unsurpassed. P.S. Cottier My legions of loyal readers will have noticed that I just took slightly more than a week off. There were many reasons for this; a little disappointment here; a mini-existential crisis there. But my attending the gym four times a week had something to do with it too. Now that poem above is something of an exaggeration. I have never fainted at the gym, although I have come close. There is nothing miraculous about the changes I am seeing. Some are so slow that they are only noticeable over months rather than weeks. My legs and back are much