Risen
by Charles Nevsimal
Desperado Press is pleased to announce the release of its first chapbook!
Back where we’re from, a little place we like to call the nineteenth century, there isn’t much disagreement about religion. Jesus saves, and the devil chews on traitors from within his giant ice cube. We love our neighbors and do unto others. The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost: Amen.
But our great-great-grandchildren, when they’re not too busy playing with their videographic army men or listening to their “pod” portable gramophones, tell us this is no longer the case. Instead, they say believing in God is hokum-pokum, like believing in medicinal quackery. We have retorted that we stand by our quacks with their tonics and fancy shoes. But—heaven forefend—should our medics be somehow proven to be nothing but shills and hucksters, we would still have our God. He is immutable, He is everywhere, and He doesn’t think your britches should ride so low that everyone including Mrs. C. can see your underthings. They respond with a snippy “Whatever” and walk off in a huff, probably to write more on their little numera-typers in that impenetrable language of theirs.
But, as it does seem those whippersnappers are occasionally more correct about what is “hep” than we are, we sauntered down to Main Street in front of the general store, opposite the haberdashery. “We believe in God. His ways are righteous and holy,” we pronounced proudly to passersby.
We were astonished at the results. Miss M. looked the other way. The newlywed Mr W. whispered something to his bride as they passed us, and she tittered. Young Michael L. told us we should “Get a life.” Not one—dare I say it?—not a single soul rose to join us in our praise. We were ostracized for putting forth the most universal and agreeable notion conceivable to us. Indeed, it seemed we were lone prophets in a city of doubting Alanises.
Thus, when Charles Nevsimal approached us with a poem entitled Risen, we were worried he was just another young man with dirty-blonde hair and snide remarks about our Lord and Savior. We read the poem, just as you can read the beginning of section two. Gratefully—very gratefully—we were wrong. Instead, in Risen, Nevsimal describes his own personal walk of faith, but he does it in language we assume our great-great-grandchildren will find to be “the cat’s pajamas.” For example, we are familiar with dirigibles, but we can’t conceive what one would do with a zeppelin made of lead. We also surmise that Kool Aid is some sort of juicelike beverage, but we can only hope that our descendents know whether “Ecto Cooler” is a color, a flavoring, or both.
We are convinced Nevsimal is speaking the language of holy praise in the diction of the new generation. People from the twenty-first century have said some very nice things about him and his poem:
“In Mr. Nevsimal’s verse, a relentless hope rises through a maze of disillusionment and the harsh, gritty realities of our earthly life. The good news is all the better because it is framed by unflinching honesty about what it heals.” —Dr. Angus Menuge, editor, Lightbearer in the Shadowlands: The Evangelistic Vision of C.S. Lewis
“Drunk on The Holy Spirit and Jack Daniels, Charles Nevsimal, with ‘High and holy’ eyes and tongue, weaves together Jesus and Jackie Gleason, Abraham and Led Zeppelin, Dharmic dalliances, Ecto Cooler Kool-Aid, and the Eucharistic into a great feral Midwestern psalm of love and redemption. A man who knows ‘static ships on the horizon’ harken ‘a meditation’ should be read. Read this and light.” —Susan Firer, author of The Laugh We Make When We Fall
This is Charles Nevsimal’s first chapbook, and we say, using neither irony nor exaggeration, it is one of the most important chapbooks to be published in the small press this year. While we are told that to be publicly religious is to risk becoming a pariah, we are proud to publish a book that celebrates enduring, virtuous things—facing exclusion if we must. Ladies and gentlemen, Risen will show you what a holy, beautiful thing religion can be.
All we ask of you is $6, or $8 for a signed, lettered edition that includes a complimentary Paisley Cowboy broadside.