(In memory of Anthony Hassett, and in response to his artwork)

I have seen

the Little Emperor—

mischievous, unabashed, baiting

in borrowed skin

dong tolling through the marketplace

offering his services for a nominal fee.

He leads, without words,

through smile and eyes alone

flesh blood bone advertisement

robed in dust baked brown

in the sun’s unremitting violence

hands nursing thin air

into something mesmeric.

One afternoon I ask him—May I take your picture,

to which he responds by flashing an upturned palm.

As soon as he is paid he strikes a pose,

voguing Marilyn or Madonna,

snap, and then again, snap—

the Little Emperor clearly relishing

the instant celebrity aroused by my camera.

It is only later,

in my room, alone,

images of the Little Emperor

spread upon the table—

that I come to understand

the true meaning of double exposure.

It begins with an Exacto,

and just the right amount of human interest.

A single blade

held up to the light

gently excising

surface claims and

false derivatives.

Bit

        by bit

                    by bit

prosthetic names and dead skin fall away

until I am left gaping into the source of majesty, revealed.

Emboldened,

I run through the marketplace, screaming:

I have seen the Little Emperor naked

I have seen him naked for real—

Yet no one turns to look,

I think because I left my skin

at home, and bluntly lucid

is an advertisement with

too much glare

and not enough hook.