Slaking your thirst

Editorial #3

In Essays on February 17, 2014 at 6:05 PM
hirschworth web design k
You may have noticed that our site has been out of operation some time. The reasons are several. One is that I’ve been ill, off and on, since mid-November. This illness ultimately required a brief hospital stint. At that time, I was forced to step away from Hirschworth indefinitely. While Hirschworth has staff and contributors, publishing itself was a one-man show and unfortunately that show had to end—temporarily.
            I am exceedingly happy to report that I am now in much better health and Hirschworth will re-launch soon. The date is not yet fixed—we are redesigning and reconfiguring the site in exciting ways: increasing aesthetic beauty while maintaining a simple layout and a straightforward presentation of content.
            Regards the above, new content will command Hirschworth’s front page longer as we make the move to twice-weekly publication—at least as concerns stories, essays, poems, and other finished pieces.
We will also, however, have a new section of the magazine for more spur-of-the-moment thoughts and off-the-cuff editorials. This will appear under the heading “Odds & Ends” and will be displayed as a sidebar.
            When Hirschworth was conceived, one of our goals was to have a place where the merits of artists and art pieces of all forms could be discussed, lauded, and critiqued, as well as a place for making note of more of-the-moment movements, trends, and stories. In Hirschworth’s real world conception to date, however, that sort of discussion has been impossible—unsuitable to appear alongside proper published pieces as well as awkward to post in social media where anything longer than a sentence is passed over without being read. I sincerely hope that our new section will ameliorate this problem.
            Humbly, I ask that that all of you be patient with us a little longer. Hirschworth’s best days are still ahead. Many thanks to all of you.
- Thomas McCafferty

poem #99

In Poetry on December 17, 2013 at 9:00 AM
vagina eclogue
My boyfriend showed me his cock bib,
shit you not,
cloth hanky
tied round his rod.
He was all,
“Just cuz my dick’s hungry
don’t mean I have to get cream,
blood, and chocolate sauce
on my nutsack.”
Like it’s clean to begin with.
Gotta say I’m offended.
Gotta call foul on sartorial genital
For either sex.
While I’m on it, I’m no fan of condoms.
Who is?
Mother says, “You’re a fool’s feminist,”
and may have something,
but hell, I got the pill,
got Obamacare,
got my antibiotics
got my HIV exotics.
Bareback’s one of those things everybody practices
but only rappers preach cuz the rest of us are rabbitized.
No matter how many Trojan MTV ads advertize,
the feel sucks
for cunt and kisser alike.
In movies, TV, women against contraception
tend toward baby craziness or trepidation—
afraid of their men losing confidence
(Read: Pushing slugs. Sensitive creatures).  
That’s changing.
Can we get an AMEN
for XX chromosomes liberated enough,
educated enough,
powerful enough
to make the same mistakes as XYs
for the same delicious reasons?
And not petrified to say so—publicly?
Don’t sneeze on me, Sailor.
Don’t touch me arm, either.
Don’t tickle me cheek, don’t finger
me honey hole.
How well you know the half of me?
Who you think I am?
A woman. White. Irish. Irish American.
My words any less important if I were black,
Indian, Indian American?
German, Honduran?
A straight up guy,
all out gay,
hemale, shemale, tranny, bi?
I don’t believe half what I say.
Born again Christian (dead again).
True-to-God virgin (broken hymen).
Whateverthehell I am,
to the bowties
on yer manhood.
- Kirstin O’Connor

poem #98

In Poetry on December 16, 2013 at 12:25 PM
Mon Port Au Prince prince
prints prints
in le Printemps 
en le printemps,”
she cooed,
thrusting out our son,
quarter-dollar baby.
Prince prince prints prints? 
You dream that up all by yourself?
with that big brain of yours?
“You’re a bastard,” she said. 
Always abuses me with English.
Why you love me, isn’t it?
“Maybe it’s your money.”
I nursed a Cassis Blanc.
She nursed the boy.
What to do you do when wifey,
beloved object of/subject to obsessive,
worshipful, depraved desire
admits to being in it for the cash?
You picked the wrong writer for
goldie gold diggin, my golden
Goldie Lox.
“Don’t try salvaging yourself with words.
Mine were much more clever. 
Non, non love. Buy something por moi.
Something that tick tocks.
Something by Piaget.
If you need to, put it on the card.
If you can’t, beg. 
If begging doesn’t work, steal. 
If you fail stealing…”
I whispered to my son,
“Bite her, boy! 
Go ahead and 
bite her hard!”
- Thomas McCafferty

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