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he poems in this chapbook are fun, silly, and even a little twisted. In general, they take the reader on a crazy ride. Be brave and enjoy the ride. I pretend to be stranger than I am. Middle age has sort of mellowed me out. This means no more driving the wrong way on dark, and deserted, San Francisco streets or roller-skating on acid. Too bad – so sad, at least flashbacks are free and somewhat harmless.


Dedication page


dedicate this book of poems to all the self-proclaimed crazies out there. The world would be a dull place without you. It takes one to know one, and now you know some of the odd little details that make me who I am.

contents introduction dedication

x xi

any kind of ammo


a crowded psyche


Author’s Note 1

Author’s Note 2

rainbow mania Author’s Note 3


you might be a psycho


dummiville, usa


Author’s Note 4

Author’s Note 5






Any kind of Ammo

is a funny, chaotic list poem that reveals an awful lot about who I am. It’s both brutally honest and highly exaggerated. However, a more obvious contradiction is also present. I’ll explain. In it, I list some quirky, and somewhat random, things that I love and hate, and then claim to despise that very kind of systematic articulation. My mother is a compulsive list maker. Once, I asked her, if she has ever cheated and crossed out anything that she did not complete, and she got very angry with me. Perhaps, that is why I refuse to track my daily life on napkins and scraps of paper, but maybe it is some small indication that I am more like her than I care to admit.

Any Kind of Ammo

I’m a crazy girl Precisely the type your mother warned you about an Aries witch with a gypsy hex defiant to my pagan core and wild as hell. I love Horoscopes, especially my own Dictionaries, sprites, a boy with small hands and glasses Music – even the demonic shit, skulls, white rabbits, psychedelic art, twinkies, tarot cards, cherry coke, mushrooms Sprinting barefoot, the number three, anything shiny and conspiracy theories. If aliens ever invaded Earth I’d volunteer to be an experiment and then demand a clone Or maybe it would be wiser to just start shooting and keep score. I hate Lists, cats, sixes, hack writers, tweekers cops from Oklahoma Watermelon, cinnamon – Hot Damn in particular, Team America and roadside scripture. I often fantasize about using such signage for target practice

Pellets, paintballs, shells Just about any kind of ammo will do.




A Crowded Psyche

is a zany, slightly obnoxious, and somewhat autobiographical poem about dreams. It’s based on several that have stuck with me for years. However, I must confess that so much creative liberty was taken that fabrication far outweighs the truth. Regardless of all that, it seems that I yearn (subconsciously) to marry a gentle blue beast, resent calculators, and associate popcorn with murder. Also, this poem may indicate some personality issues. It has two speakers. The first voice is reflective in a wanton and comical way. Nothing said by this persona can be deemed profound, nor can it be judged as malicious or harsh. The same cannot be said about the second voice. Instead this persona offers a more abrasive perspective on marriage, unemployment, karma, motherhood, other domestic duties, and even some advice on how to achieve greatness.

A Crowded Psyche

The Beast, from X-men looking so notoriously blue and hunky in a suit several sizes too small, Brains and brawn so hot! my wedding day – A real novelty

Karma, karma, karma.

Spandex sucks. Marriage is for mutants. Don’t get hitched to a damn cartoon. They’re so two-dimensional.

No, no, no.

Then, stick him with that sweet, little package and disappear. Kurt Cobain, resurrected as my neighbor

Newspaper rain, stacks of Bee vans, talking tacos, 6 feet tall, no lettuce, diet soda – Fourthmeal, anyone?

A meth dealer who wants to borrow the sugar – totally Bizarre

Shame, shame, shame.

Hide the evidence. Stash the contraband. Act normal. Mop the floor. It’s us vs. them. Never forget we’re all in this together. Our audience is ready. Lie. Make it genius.

No 5 year plan. Or health insurance. Time to trade those comic books for the want ads and find a real job. Demon cats in locker 72, math anxiety, giant numbers with furry legs and gross teeth, wanting to eat me – Scary stuff all that

Error, Error, Error. No calculator can save you. Scantrons are not for dot plots. Bible paper does not burn as good as Tops. Especially at church, Stupid. A shape shifting goldfish guru, keeper of all arcane knowledge, wise and magical Fantasy at its finest – so nuts!

What goes around comes around. If it’s good for the buck then it’s good for her too. Roughly, a nine month gestation period.

Danger, danger, danger.

Levitating rabbits, a body stuffed with popcorn yeah, I killed her shot a yellow ball of wizard’s fire at her dome sold my son to the gypsies, always wanted to, got 12 dimes and a copper pot Everyone has a double, seen mine dozin’ in some rainbow gooey bubble membrane thing and I can’t help but wonder –

Is she dreaming of me too?




Rainbow Mania

is a silly, super indulgent poem that features a ranting mushroom and multiple drug references. Writing it was a fun little jaunt down memory lane. I am quite fond of both flashbacks and mushrooms. In fact, I collect them. Basically, anything that you can imagine having a mushroom theme, I am likely to have in my collection. OK, that’s an exaggeration. Did I mention that I am fond of those as well? Seriously though, my collection really does include shroom shaped candles, figurines, saltshakers, incense holders, and a large toadstool lamp made of wood and coral. I even have one that I take everywhere. It’s about two inches tall with a stout stem and a full purple cap. It is cute, but not very yummy, especially since its tattooed on my back and I couldn’t eat it even if I wanted to.

Rainbow Mania

…And then this fabulously fat, Striped not speckled, Too tall, Pop-eyed, Mushroom Lifted his Rocket red, Poptart pink, Gandalf grey head to the Kool-Aid colored, Crayola flavored sky and roared:

“I’m the maker of all this glorious rainbow mania, not you, so return Limbo the firebug at once.”

And… Holy Papa Smurf! Time stopped to consume an Astropop and it rained: 7 supersized glow sticks, 6 flashing Skittle themed yo-yos 5 purple cotton candy pinwheels 4 magic 8 balls 3 shiny tricycles 2 tricky kaleidoscopes 1 glowing fly And an Ouija board possessed by a girl named Tripp.

And then… in an oddly marshmallow like puff Mr. Shroom was gone




You Might Be a Psycho

is a comical, wicked little ode to my favorite band, Slayer. The poem is a totally depraved piece of work. It’s much like the lyrics of its namesake, but it is a lot like me as well. My favorite line is “see no difference between a human and a hamburger”, and I must admit that I would eat a fellow human being before I starved to death. Perhaps, in the next life I will be born dead. The existence of a zombie, demon, or vampire does not seem half bad!

You might be a psycho if. . .


don’t have Trets but act like you do, howl at the moon when the sun is headache white and shining, hope to be the next pet writer of the Lit Mag, fake seizures in public, hear voices in your oddly shaped head and think this is great material

“need a shrink,”

instead of I lose your keys while you’re in the car driving down the road, love Alice, but hate the Wizard of Oz – stupid fraud, believe ADD is contagious and therefore predict eviction notices will be in a constant in your future, are haunted by never-ending inkblot tests and fitted straight jackets, have an unexplainable, compulsive liking for green tic tacs, refer to Taco Bell as Hangover Helper, see no difference between a human and a hamburger, need obnoxious music with your wake-up cigarette and coffee, still require a nightlight and a zoo of stuffed toys at bedtime,

Lady Lucifer—

want to legally change your name to cuz it has a certain ring to it and God and the Devil are the same anyway, are so fond of the band Slayer that you proclaimed your love to a pinup and deemed their anti-god, anti-government, anti-everything lyrics poetic.




dummiville, usa

is a mean-spirited tirade. In it, I gripe about all the things that bother me about school: the lines, the filthy bathrooms, and too much noise. Most of all, it’s the people that really bug me: snobby professors, rude employees, nuggets that take up class space, and all those creepers that won’t take no for an answer or go away. When I was still at ARC, I earned a nasty reputation. The story goes that instead of having a heart there’s a black withered thing inside my chest. It’s funny really. I remember making that same comment once. The guy I said it to turned out to be a real toad. I still want to squish him. Someday, oh one day, perhaps I will get my wish. Yeah, I have quite the vile mouth. So what. I do hold back sometimes, but not in this poem. Concerning other dumb fricken morons, I often fanaticize about doing the world a favor a giving one of them a mean little shove over the edge.

dummiville, usa

Excuse me, but I’m not in the mood to fricken gossip.

they’ll be happy to help you bomb that class gracefully and scavenge some understanding of the material.

Yeah, she’s fat. So what? Can’t you see that I’m eating?

Please, just go away.

Think of it as preparation for your next pointless go around on Math 120.

I’m sorry, but no, I won’t proof read your paper or check your work on that quadratic equation.

Listen, I have my own homework to do.

Those classes are weed killer designed to exterminate weak minded dependent learners.

Can’t help.

No, I won’t pose for your art assignment. Hey, I need to concentrate, this outline’s due in 25 minutes.

Oh. It’s you again. Did you follow me?

Yeah, Stupid, I’m serious.

Quit bothering me.

I don’t care if you’re failing.

Yes, I’m a tutor, but I’m not working now. Are you gonna pay me for my fricken time?

Better them than me.

I’m no weed. F is not in my academic alphabet.

Better luck next time.


Didn’t think so.

No, I don’t have an extra cigarette. Go shake your ass at Showgirls or flip burgers at McDonalds anything But if you’re gonna smoke at least have the decency to buy your own!

Go see the tutors in the LRC


colophon T

he ultimate goal, or purpose, of this project was to seamlessly employ two forms of expression into a single project. Granted, the ability to write creatively and the capability to express ideas visually are often thought of as two different skill sets, but an effective Graphic Designer is able to communicate using both language and image. This chapbook is visually appealing and intellectually stimulating. It’s eyecandy for designers and writers alike. The poetry is rich in meaning, emotionally expressive, entertaining, enlightening, and deep. But not so out of touch from non-literary people as to be inconceivable and thus irrelevant to them.


I sought to capture the audience’s complete attention. They should be so completely captivated that designers actually read the words and writers really study the pictures. The time has come to list the technical details. Two fonts were used. Body copy is in Bookman Old Style. Headlines and emphasis is done with Stencil. Graphics were created using a lengthy process. First, hand sketches were drawn and photographed. Then, these files were modified in Adobe Photoshop. For cover art, the image was Rasterized, the mode was changed to greyscale, and the Threshold was manipulated. Poem illustrations were changed to greyscale, Rasterized, converted to HDR Toning, and finally a Fresco filter was applied.

k E rEEva n E

graphic designer/writer

Š 2014

A Sheer Disaster  

A poetry chapbook written and designed by Reeva Keene. Book 1 in a three-volume set.

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