I am a communist. In a world that condemns mostly accurate thumping of male chests, that communism was wrong. It was wrong. It cannot be turned around anymore. It’s for losers. I am a loser. Whose disappointment that anything can change, is the solid ground of If Only. If only we could end poverty, but capitalism is watching to see if we overstep the boundaries of We Will. Capitalism is watching Burning Man smoke the desert in the kind of heat that will melt your bones. When was South Africa not staring at the abyss. We drag the carcass of it to the shore of the deeply curious. Who watch. It is all they ever do. Safe. Safe. Safe. The status quo’s parameters will soon enough bring the abyss of everyone’s door to everyone’s door. You will be treading water which will have arrived not unlike poverty became so deep-rooted in places like Durban’s disappearance of land yet for the sea. Nothing is worse than AIDS. It’s a living, long-range torturous nightmare. I know. Death only is. If pandemics reach the level of famine’s baby, but cut out the middlemen of time and place, to now define poverty as government’s problem, where do we go next. Malls were gutted. Oh, my. Capitalism, communism, royalism will not save us. These are rag dolls in which both time and place become themselves dueling points of view. Poverty will be rage and rage will accomplish nothing and everything at the same time. Poverty is essential to who Homo sapiens are. Poverty is the boogeyman who we would eat alive.