Skip to main content

New York Attitude: Poems - Amanda Tumminaro


The Stewardess
The time zones divide her in to portions
and she struts through the aisle like a vision.
Her sexuality is about to bust from her bra
and she is a typical American.
She reads Vogue and Allure
and dabs her face with the suspension of a compact.
Beauty can be pulled together like a bridge,
but it can fall apart with an eye on the floor.
She's a genuine heartbreaker -
she'll eat it with her broken bread.
She's got her men in a rolodex -
When in Rome, right?
Gay Art
I find your sexuality erotic.
The grinding of males can be found in local, gay porn theatres
and in the shadows two males are gymnasts.
How pleasurable can the taboo be
under the mask of the anonymous.
The screen is their mentor for outdated “crimes”.
They vandalize one another in their bottoms
and in their faces
and this injustice is sex in full bloom.
Can you climb the highest frenzy?
They are modeled after the French.
In all cases of love, they are modeled after the French.
New York Attitude
I'm sick to death of TV ads
telling me to cope, like they're some sort of priest.
I could meet head-on with the porcelain
about college commercials and self-improvement books,
or scare tactics in the medical village.
I'm piloting my own plane
and you are a passenger to my opinions
because I'm not planning to shed my pounds like fleece
or run a brush through my hair.
Who are you any way, Mussolini?
You can piss all over yourself
like some cross-eyed baby
because your thoughts are only invisible words.
Take the subway to The Bronx
and see if you don't end up with egg on your face.


Amanda Tumminaro lives in the U.S. Her poetry has appeared in Cottonwood, Spoon River Poetry Review and Freshwater, among others. She is currently working on her first poetry chapbook.

Popular posts from this blog

A Broken Head(set) - Jesus Rivera

This past summer was like all other suburban summers: short and hot. Short enough so that it came and went and, having not overstayed its welcome, would be welcomed again. Hot enough that little kids cracked eggs on their asphalt driveways, scrambled for a round of hide and go seek, and before the tiny seeker could finish counting to ten and move her hands from her eyes, the yolks were very well done. On both sides.

Three Poems - Scott Laudati

my first night back we were far apart once but you can hear my heart now in this chest, and your hair used to itch my skin if you didn’t tuck it back but you’ll never hear about it again

Pat Brown and Broken Ribs - Robert Vogt

Pat Brown points a .45 caliber semi-automatic pistol in my face. Pat Brown, the Pat Brown of Vandals fame—the guy the Vandals wrote the song about—yells, “Get the fuck outta here!”