Plastic soep in de VrijMiBo

Het is weekend. Soep, overal soep.
I have started to say
"A quarter of a century"
Or "thirty years back"
About my own life.
It makes me breathless
It's like falling and recovering
In huge gesturing loops
Through an empty sky.
All that's left to happen
Is some deaths (my own included).
Their order, and their manner,
Remain to be learnt.
Prettig weekend. En be nice.

James Baldwin Was Not Your Figurehead

substack.com

there's a kind of violence in posthumously drafting a man famously resistant to joining anything into your political movement