In Poverty Has No Color, Alkēbulan stages a visual riot of sameness to expose the lie of difference. A sea of nearly identical, pale male bodies—bowl-cut heads and beards arranged like a mass-manufactured caste—spills across the top of the frame like a surrealist fresco. Below them, a single, shirtless figure stands grounded in grimy blues, surrounded by discarded buckets, moldy insulation, and secondhand living. This isn’t satire. It’s revelation. This piece doesn’t ask if poverty can cross color lines—it declares it has no loyalty to race, only to system, class, and spectacle. The aesthetic is both absurd and brutal, coded in repetition, neglect, and uncomfortable recognition. It’s a portrait of post-ethnic dispossession, of whiteness as not immunity but inventory. The lone figure doesn’t look up—because he knows: Identity was commodified long before it was empowered. Here, poverty is an equalizer, not an excuse.