Minton sparks, she/her/hers
Spoken word artist, writing YOUR story teacher/ workshop leader
Songwriter/ novelist/lover of personal history/
Not afraid to meet the monsters in the text
Not afraid to invite
ignorance out of her own story
a deep diver, a former basketball player
“A woman can nearly drown in the twin aches of homesick and let’s get the hell out of here”. Minton Sparks is a future looking back over its own shoulder longing for some missing limb.
Rapturous legacy, fortuitous medicine, forming new boundary waters at the edge of where humans end…and birds begin
Place where we find ourselves dancing to the song of someone else’s sacred heart. And though at times we’re off tune, off course, out of rhythm, we write our way singing through the Consumption constitution shouting, we are more than this. more than this. more.
Minton is a fan and follower of Tom Waits,
Anis Mojgani and all the rest of ‘em.
Divinity School and psychotherapy sway and pitch in her margins, it’s not preaching, it’s reaching for the heart of some narrative acting as an anchor, a root, a underground snake, you might take up when the Spirit fills you.
The New World is upon us. it’s disorienting,
Homesickness is as universal as healthcare is not.
When Minton Sparks
lays on the horn of a Mercury Marquis through the fog, she’s asking
What is home and who is family?
The answer is a circular tale told in a straight
line through poetic practices of storytelling
and revelation meant to twist at the truth.
Sometimes the answer appears in images:
Hot coffee splashed accidently on the corpse’ in her casket,
Or a navy pantsuit binding the waist
after a breakfast buffet
The place where the real and the woeful meet.
Everybody’s got a Signature, a finger print, an inimitable you.
Sometime our dark is deep, thirsty roots waitin’ on excavation.
Here you’ll find gun talk, fight clubs, granny panties,
a shot gun scatter of Secular Clowns on the ground.
Memories indelibly etched, like that filling station blown to bits
after a cell phone got on the gas pump,
caused a combustible fire.
the storms have come and gone and will come again.
This is the stage where humans end and birds begin
Restless. willing. unwilling.
Colors you feel through your skin,
That’s where this records begins
the undergrowth, underbrush, understory.
Let’s say…longing was a brown noun.
grief was a dark green grenade
relief appeared as a red apple
And truth came dressed as jaundiced eyes.
Minton’s the kind willing to peep through the leg hole of a pair of granny panties just to catch a glimpse of a wider world.