The Day Pegasus’ Wings Turned Purple

By Lauryn K. Powell

When Pegasus flies into Obama’s arthritic knuckles, the sound of his wings falling to the ground — be it the past president’s or the noble steed’s — is so uproarious, so deafening, it reminds me of the murmuring man who passed out on the sidewalk made of corn.
Said kernels whisper about colonels going to war over stalks, over stalkers across the sidewalk. The man who stood preaching the word “sobriety” soon fell over from getting high as thunder.

But is the sky the limit?
What of space?
I try soaring through space, but my take off is stopped by the heat of the earth; by the boiling sea.
I wonder what Nature’s cooking today; her ice box is almost empty.
I fear that the sky’s the limit, now:
So I fly low to the ground.
And while I dream of flying, I see Kennedy’s eye eying up my face like his name was Lee Harvey Oswald.
And I’m suddenly in Dallas, Texas, sitting beside my summertime lover, watching Kennedy stroll down the street in his car.
Oswald looks at me, winks, shoots.
Kennedy fell, but I had a jar to can the strawberry jam that came out of his head. Shame, though.
I never spread it on toast.
But maybe the gatekeeper, who gave me an introduction to the introspective mansion of delusions and protrusions of the mind, has.
I met an old dwarf, drunk off height, or perhaps off flawed depth perception, with an age saying that he’s too ancient to die but a teenage mind saying that he’s invincible.
If that’s so, why doesn’t he grab a parachute and fly side by side with Pegasus and I?
He tells me about his wife, cousin to the Jolly green giant, who is afraid of tall places. He takes a swig of the tequila we got just a moment before when we were in Mexico. And then his face turns to dirt in the field as he finally manages to eat the worm out of the bottle.
The cornfield whispers husky tales for all ears to hear.
They watch Pegasus’s pale pelt deepen to a cozen indigo, wanting to be in the warmth of the sun, but unable to escape the bruises the super violent ultra violet rays are leaving on his coat.
A deep crack resounds through the spinach green sky, which soon becomes overpowered by night.
Obama’s fingers, with only his skeletal bones showing, fall off his hands, off the tree trunks they were chopped from, and into the field.
And the fire, the one caused by the toaster, burns like Napalm:
Scorching, terrifying, burning a whole new hole through the earth.
I land, pickup Pegasus’s purple wings, and awaken.
And I still.
Smell.
The Napalm.