Something about Y2K

Roger Butts
2 min readOct 30, 2023


Just past the front door, as you open it,
And step in, are three large, human sized
Potted plants — trees really. Call them trees.

The pots like those pots that sit outside
Official buildings that stop cars from
Driving through. Close together. And the

Plants have spikes.
The trees, they have spikes.

So you have to jimmy your way into the space.
Pots and Plants. Trees and Spikes. Stop and Jimmy.

You will bleed. And once you’re able to cross over,
Let’s say you’re bleeding and raw, and tired too,
Breathless. Like you’re at 10,000 feet on your way
To Leadville.

That weekend — y2k — the world ended but no one knew it yet.
All the rumors and gossip: There will be bombs.
But none of that shit happened until 2 Septembers later.

But the seeds were there
That weekend. We just didn’t know it.

That overcoat in the y2k photo I’m wearing?
Five dollars at the church yard sale. I smoked
And I smoked. I stunk to high heaven.

That was the weekend love came to town
And I caught that train. But more widely,
Everything changed and nothing would
Ever be the same and the world crashed
We just didn’t know it yet.

Crash and burn. Fall and down. Love came to town.

And so on.

And yes, you jimmy through. You’ll bleed. You’ll
Grow breathless. But you make it through.
Once you hit your spot, the yellow light consumes all
In its path, trees spikes you.

A harsh and exciting yellow. And then, without warning
The voice: Get out of my head. Get out of this space.
Get out of my head. Get out of this space.
The yellow light and the red blood and your breathless
Breath all scream along until there is the great nothing.

Yohan Marion, photographer. Via Unsplash.



Roger Butts

Author, Seeds of Devotion. Unitarian Universalist. Ordained 20 years.