Butterfly Nut House

A poem honoring Peter James Conti. This one's by Lynn Procope...beautiful.

As a lead in to this poem, she wrote this on her blog - "This is also for Danny, my love, who lets me cry every time I try to tell him about Peter and who'd never flirted with a man (let alone a gorgeous black Italian gay man who occasionally talked to the voices over his shoulder) until he met Pete but did it cause I said he had to love all my Petes if he wanted me to love him. I appreciate that kind of love. Because of these people, it's all around me. It's not easy, it grows up the wrong way but gets its ass in gear and learns a new thing every day. For all of you even if you never know it. ack! so sappy!"

Butterfly Nut House – in memory of PJC
By Lynne Procope – 1.17.06

We buried you, in a cold snap, during
a transit strike, nothing moving except
under the power or our own energies.

We whispered, a cancer, what made it?
and there grew a fear of our rash rough throats,
everything a threat. We shifted uneasy,

shoulder to shoulder, almost as in love
as we all were in the old days but for
this thrall of absolute ice, we owned

no explanations except perhaps sucrose,
and red wines too sweet for grownups. Peter.
how did we arrive here, without you?

Tonight I write at our old holy place.
The bartender does not know you’re dead,
He gives me free beer; cold benediction.

He begins the list, asks after our circle.
This one still hungry, another married,
the youngest carries tumors; mistaken babies,

the loudest gone to where he can praise
an easier god and you; each time I’m asked,
I forget which words mean that you’re dead;

underweight, 90 lbs when they cracked
the ice bound earth. I have not spoken aloud
since your first call to say, Cancer. Perhaps

your bare back exposed as a scandal and
all your lovely hungry boys. The last thing
I said was, How do I apologize

for letting in the monster that is eating you?
Was it your father’s ministry, his holy,
the cracked closet door, your mother’s deep cough,

or the voices that leached onto your ear?
When you stopped listening, did they migrate
south, inhabit your spine? You abdicated

madness. Was that it? You, younger, crazy
more naked, you louder, willing to sing
off key, off beat, all the wrong words.
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Do You Know - Lynn Procope?

If you don't know, now you know:-)

Lynne Procope hails from Trinidad and Tobago and is a full-time poet/ teaching artist living in New York. In over 10 years on the poetry scene, she has made quite a name for herself! In addition to being one of the founders of the New York City louderARTS Project,Lynn was also a member of the Nuyorican Poetry Slam team that went on to win the 1998 National Poetry Slam Championship in Austin, TX.

Her work is influenced by her experiences as a woman and often speaks to the trials of marginalized populations. She is an awesome performer, but her real strength is in her writing. Every line is packed with so much depth that you often have to re-read/ rewind to catch the full meaning. An absolute lyrical master, Lynn is pretty much the defintitin of a deep sister. Some of her most famous works include "Elemental Woman", "Flectere" and "Evidence of Injury".

check her out in this interview -


watch her slam!

On Second Thought
By Lynn Procope
"Black girls in short shorts and last summer’s high heeled shell toes
Blacker than we were last year or a month ago because finally, finally the sun
Black girls in head wraps the season we discovered Africa on Fulton st
Black girls in low, low rise jeans the year our city burned
And all we could do was hold each other’s hands
Laugh with our mouths wide open
Loud enough so each of us could hear the other’s tears
Smothering in the backs of our throats
Pointing to where the towers used to be to
Trying to see through the plumes of soot
Black girls who move to New York
To slay their mother’s perfect church dresses
To raise the ante on their mother’s stole ward hips
To forget the way their fathers came home
To make good on promises to all those old, old black ladies at the family reunion
To play god with their own lives, for a change"