“At the stroke of midnight on January 1, 2000, the world could erupt into complete chose [sic]. Imagine: social security checks stop coming, planes all over the world are grounded, VISA balances skyrocket, and the military, police officers, and firefighters walk off the job. Any one of these problems could generate enormous social consequences. Combined, they will cause complete chaos. Experts know how to solve the Year 2000 crisis, but can it be implemented in time?”
“Now, for the first time in non-computer nerd language, author Michael S. Hyatt tells the rest of us, in a straightforward manner, the magnitude and scope of the Year 2000 crisis and its impact on federal, state and local governments; the banking and finance industries; public utilities; and the personal computer.”
I read and then I write:
Oh dear Houston, we do indeed have one
Of millennial proportions. Er, wait:
Actually, it could happen to any
Century turning over. Our problem
Is the understanding geeks gave machines
Of how years work for us human beings.
Still, let’s not pursue blame games, far too late
For such nonsense. Let’s just get packing
Our bug-out bags and saving our children
From the impending jump out of kosmos
Into the joke of social chaos and
Financial ruin. Oh, Year 2000:
We won’t be able to fix you in time,
I’m afraid. I’m afraid of the fabric
(Which is to say “text,” which is to say, “τέχ”)
Tearing us apart in the processes
It was programmed to execute dumbly.
I’m afraid of lots of things, like divorce
And expiration dates. Others all dread.
Electric, electric, electric grids:
I thought I did everything right
And my reward would be not going down
In flames with the rest of humanity.
I thought being 32 and a man
Credited me strong immunity.
Compliance, compliants, and complaints:
At least now such sins won’t last unto death
(Beyond, in fact, if you think of my spouse).
I just want my loved ones to survive
What’s coming—I’m convinced—at all costs.
Countdown. This is why we can’t have nice things.
De spite, I’m vibrating with solutions.
I feel unspeakable lit-up ball drops.
I hear terrible rubs of locust wings.
I feel Kronos and kairos and warning.
Fed up with error-throwing arthropods,
A middle-class demigod morphed by signs:
Oh, ecdysis toward persistent climes,
Let’s put off January 1st’s menace.
Let me to my own devices, but peep
These simple techniques for your cathexis.