Issue 3:1 | Featured Artist | Jon Hounshell
Top down in the Karmann Ghia.
Roaring in German, it loves the winding road,
singing an Italian love song while
screaming from the mountain
meandering through the mist
into the clearing air.
Bursting. Bursting from the heart of the clouds,
from the very sky itself; low flying bird,
echoing the heavens in its chrome;
streaking red steel twisting,
cutting up the hillside
into the blue above.
Waving. Waving hands in the Karmann Ghia,
between the shadows rolling ‘cross the hood
soaking up the sun in glory;
shifting gears up and down
groaning around the curves
Throwing. Throwing apples from the open car
against the passing boulders with whooping yells
exploding in fine Appalachian apple juice;
laughing, stupid singing
making jokes and mooing
at unsuspecting cows.
Shooting photos in the rearview mirror,
silver halides and moaning engine,
cooling shade and biting sunshine,
dropping height and beckoning woods,
amidst giant mountains so close together.
Waterfall and sunlit dust beams mock us
popping over the tiny rocks in the road.
The car rests in serenity.
In peace the Ghia rolls like the clouds,
Taylor’s Valley, Green Cove Station.
We creep over the Creeper Trail.
Parading. Parading in the Karmann Ghia.
Born on the fourth of July, the veteran,
down the streets of Damascus
waving to the fans on main street
high above the windshield
sitting in stardom.
Melting. Melting into the blazing sun,
engulfed by wind and freeway sound,
magic legend, the engine whines.
chrome and steel,
we just feel
we could touch the sky itself.
Then, the blue wonder swallows us again
in a flare of brilliant light...
us and the little Karmann Ghia.
September 30, 1994