I am a communist. All the old bedfellows are the new bedfellows. The one thing we can expect from a deviant is deviance. Tear it up to tear it down. It doesn’t come anymore American than that. Down here in the deep South, the managerial class is the caste that goes to Church. Rituals are all about the rules, and which rules and paradigms will become the new and the old again. And again. I get asked: Why are you a communist. Actually, I have no idea. Other than to draw you into a conversation or a dialogue about poverty, morality, systems, death, human rights, and why communism doesn’t work because capitalism cannot sustain it, and the center cannot hold. What could possibly go wrong. Maybe it’s just me. I work for myself because I do not on some superficial level, fit in. I am the worker. I am the manager. I am the boss. I am the camera. I am the photographer. I am the credit card. My pockets are the central bank. Who needs art anyway.

You do.

You run your scams (institutional, economic), by feeding your agendas fresh meat. You know all of this politik is crazy, and if you close your eyes, and click your heels three times, you’re probably in Kansas, and we know what they vote for. A managerial class that is playing Vegas odds that you can be robbed again and again, and you will abrogate your own rights, what, to prove a point. Managers as a rule, hate thieves. Until they vote for a neighborhood of them even as they, themselves, move to precisely that neighborhood.