The master says a fish is mute,
but what about the cat,

hungry, attentive, envious?
With a table set with everything

a cat could ever want or dream,
his lust electric, eager for what

he does not have, ready to pounce
over the chasm between him

and his desire. The seconds crawl
and time winds the hind. Gingerly,

he rests a paw atop the gutted
fish. The lure and hook are set.

What lies beyond what eye can
see, scurrying or flying by?

What rat or beetle pressed along the
baseboards pulls him from the feast?

To finally close the circle of what
is wanted with what’s possessed

would shut the door on fate,
and leave me gutted too.

Let it go, let it run away,
and behold at what remains.

It’s only, only everything.

Subscribe now

Tip Jar

I’m scared to say I’m happy now.
I’m tired of you. I’m tired of needing food.

I have never been afraid of balloons,
but now I’m filling one with an air

of suspicion, and I tell myself
I’m still in love with you.

To drown inside a snowflake
logically, an impossibility,

but all things are possible,
it once was said, to him who believes.

I cannot stand you. Do not look at me
and desire. Let me down, let me drown

within this snowflake.
Let me feel my soul go numb.

In those days, death tasted like gum.
I have always run toward balloons.

I woke to a lollipop smelling like honey suckle
and dew. It’s impossible to drown inside a snowflake,

but it’s possible I’m still in love with you.

If you know me personally, it’s important for you to know this poem was born from an experimental exercise, and the narrator of this poem is not me, at least not me in this form.

Anyway, if you like this poem and you’re not subscribed, you should do that now, or at least leave something in the tip jar :)

Subscribe now

tip jar

What is the lesson 
we're supposed to learn 
from the pilgrimage of Icarus 
to the sun?     And if it was the moon? 
Would we be happy, would we be proud 
of his bravery?   His audacity?
His life mediated through 
mythological
paternal 
moralizing. 
A lesson to study, a rule to internalize.
It was Daedalus who could not live
beyond the chance to return 
to the daily life of sober banality.
And if the beyond was the son's desire? 
Too close to the sun for who? 
For his father, his mother, 
for teachers and priests who need
your orderliness, your inner Daedalus
to follow the straight line 
from monstrosity to domesticity. 
But if Icarus lived beyond,
if he found his home in the sunlight
though it plunged him into the abyss, 
he lived longer, 
lived more. 
He lived,      and his life is not caution 
but exhortation.
Follow Icarus into the heat of living. 
Close to where divinity melts you, 
kills you, 
but will not leave you unchanged. 

Subscribe now

I am a Christian, but 
sometimes I wish that this –

the growing trees and their flowering, 
the sprouting of honey suckle 
and the attendant wasp, 
the coming and going of geese,
the colors and cycles of the moon, 
the dog walking, 
the press of her body, 
the pilgrimage to a friend, 
the drive through dinner, 
the immaculate brunch, 
the dizziness of wine, 
the buzziness of coffee, 
the morning stretch, 
even the final closing of the eyes –

was all that there was. 
All of everything. 
Because all of it 
every bit of it 
is a miracle. 

Subscribe now

Tip Jar

As always, thanks for paying attention to the world with me.

Subscribe now

Tip Jar

How many time has this gentleman gone to brunch? How many cups of coffee has he drunk with the love of his life? How many conversations were meandered through while time passes?

This was not the photo I was trying to take. Just before, this crow was sitting on a for sale sign, and I wanted to get that, but he flew off. As he was flying I snapped as many photos as I could and got this amazing vibe of a photo.

I was walking around the Crossroads in Kansas City and found the front of this restaurant to be interesting. I do wish I would have processed this to be a bit more saturated now that I see it here, but this is truer to the brick-red of the facade itself. I don’t know the man looking at us from the window, but he feels like a villain in this photo.

This is the second time I’ve taken a photo of a bird on this fence at this time of day. I love the subtlety of the chalky blue-grey sky transitioning into the salmon sunset. When I look at this photo, I feel a sense of peace manifested by the solitude of this bird. It’s hard to find this kind of peace, surrounded as we are by the constructs of our culture—jagged, shard, angular, and cold—but it is possible if we slow down. Blue hour, I think, is a perfect time to do exactly that.

I have driven past this church nearly every day for over ten years. From the outside, watched it transform from a small, but vibrant community of elderly Pentecostals into a dilapidated building surrounded by old furniture, trash, and used tires. While I still consider myself among the faithful, the shadow of what the church used to be, a Lighthouse, is still visible, but it’s nearly impossible to imagine what the dream was once upon a time, and that feels poignant for so many people I know, including me.

I met Ille, the drummer for Ghostwoman, while she and her band mate, Evan, were in Kansas City for a stop on their tour. I grabbed a couple photos while I was there and got this great shot of Ille drumming. It embodies the spirit of her playing and the style of music (psychadelic rock, maybe?) really well.

You know how people are looking for photos that can be album covers? I think I did it here. How was I supposed to pass up a pigeon with this much aura?

This is a bronze sculpture in downtown KC called Descent of Civilization by Marc Swanson. It memorializes the deaths of thousands upon thousands of bison and their near extinction because of the hubris and wickedness of white settlers. If you know me, you know I love bison, so I find this piece particularly striking. To stand under it is foreboding, and it communicates its message well. In this photo, I tried capturing that fearfully present presence.

I don’t know this cat, and I felt a bit voyeuristic taking this photo of the inside of someone’s house, but I couldn’t help catching this sweet cat, whom my wife affectionately named Greg.

Subscribe now

Tip jar

Subscribe now

I've watched the colors change
as seasons move in and out 
again, clocking the ever rotating, 
never stopping nature of time. 
Welcome and unwelcome in turns. 

I watch too the acorn red 
of my dog, my friend, dimmed
by the same cycles of heat and cold. 
She doesn't brighten, though, 
with the return of spring. 
Her eyes now, once crude oil black, 
are hazed, and I wonder what else fades
that she hides with the skill of a five year old
who has broken a lamp at night.
Still, she plays, but slower. 
Still, she walks, but slower. 
Still, she dances at the sight of food
being brought to her foraging mat. 

This, too, will slow, I suppose, 
in time, and this little light of mine 
will burn low. 

For now, we will have a mutual chase
up and down the hall, hiding one
from the other, and run the yard, 
and sound the alarm 
at every stranger in the street.  

Subscribe now

Leave a tip!

Subscribe now

Onion in the Morning

The way life persists will never not entrance me. I bought this onion at Trader Joe’s. Forgot about it until I needed an onion, and when I grabbed it, I could feel it was too soft. I was about to cut into it anyway when I noticed the budding green coming from the top, so I put it back. The onion lay on its side and the leaves grew toward the ceiling, so I put the onion on a jar upright with water. The next morning, the sun filtered through the filthy window perfectly, and I had to get a portrait of the onion I had grown to love.

Two Men at Coffee

These two men came into my favorite coffee shop with folded and marked up magazines, papers, and notebooks. They talked about meditation, prayer, culture, and who knows what else. They spoke to one another with the ease of, what I assume, are years of friendship and lives that had shed some of the insecurities of youth.

Stalks in the Evening

I love grass. Something about the tenacity and ubiquitous presence of it, especially wild grasses. I’ve loved grass since the time I first saw Georgia O’Keefe’s Corn no. 2. There is a field of tall grass on the way home from work, and I’ve been meaning to stop and take a photo for some time because the way golden hour lights up dead grass is like nothing else. Corn is, by the way, a type of grass.

KC’s Favorite Tower

I was driving home from a convention in downtown Kansas City and saw the tower disappearing into the fog to my left. I grabbed my camera from its bag as quickly as I could and took this photo as the light turned green. This was a lucky shot.

Remembrances…

So much of life of life is reflection. So much of it is nostalgia and hauntology. What is the present, what is the self, if not an amalgamation of reflections from the past and the future?

…& Memories

What does a family do when they lose the space that makes them who they are? The self isn’t only our reflections. It’s the body. It’s the home. It’s the land. It’s our community. To lose any of that is to rewrite the self.

Subscribe now

buy me some film

these little guys were at oddly correct, my favorite coffee shop in kansas city, with their mother, a normal routine for the three of us on sunday mornings. i didn’t know that there was a synth show planned for the morning, but as soon as the musician started playing, the two boys ran to the counter to watch and listen. i didn’t mean this when i took the photo, but i love the contrast between two boys with a whole life ahead of them in contrast to an older man doing something he loves.

kael, the son of some of our closest friends, asked me to be his baptismal sponsor this past fall. to say i was honored is an understatement. these friends are more family than anything. i snapped this as we were getting ready to start the very small outdoor baptism—there were about ten of us—and everything needed was on the makeshift altar. this moment encapsulates so much about faith with the presence of ordinary things like towels and a rock, sacred things like prayer books and consecrated water, and beautiful things like roses and seashells. mother molly’s shadow is seen in the foreground, anticipating the transformative moment about to happen. i don’t know how i did it, and it kills me, but i love the soft colors in this photo.

gregory kolsto at work in his print shop at oddly correct. gregory is a painter and printer and is the owner and creator of oddly. he prints original works on all the coffee bags sold at the shop. we’ve been friends since he opened the business about 15 years ago or so. i was sitting at a bar on the other side of the window from his press, and i couldn’t help but grab my camera. i took a few photos and they’re all great, but this is the best. the next day, they posted sign in the entryway saying not to take pictures of the employees’ faces 😬. gregory and i have been friends forever, so i’m choosing to believe this is not about me.

this is kristen, the mother of kael, who’s baptismal sponsor i was. this photo was taken on a family farm in kansas before they moved to tennessee. kristen is an herbalist, theologian, chef, and writer. every time i am with her, i learn something new or leave with something to think about deeply. she and her husban, beau, more than anyone have taught me to live well with the land, to think about what i’m taking and what i’m giving, and how to be spiritually, embodied, and whole. this is one of her natural habitats, roaming the herb garden and smelling anything and everything. so much of my life with them feels like this photo, catching glimpses of them being wonderful human beings.

the one and only mirabel. she is the sister of kael, daughter of kristen and beau. much like her mother, i feel like this photo captures so much of who mirabel is. full of wonder, holding some leaf or rock or whatever she found that caught her eye, boots ready to treck through the woods and explore, but always a girl. it took her a little bit to warm up to me, but she finally decided i was a good enough person.

we spent some time in bali, indonesia this fall, which is the rainy season. katrina and i called a taxi and went to a shopping mall. school was letting out and the streets were packed with cars and scooters. i took a lot of photos during that ride. everything looked moody and incredible. the contrast of the bright colors of the ponchos and the humid dark sky was dramatic, and our driver’s tinted windows gave my camera the perfect filter for a moody shot of this man i will never see again.

this is the kind of photo that i love. there’s little definition, but there’s so much happening. we know these are kids, but we don’t know who they are. we know they are at play, but we don’t know what they’re imagining. the lack of clarity, the blur, that nothing in this photo is in focus communicates the energy of a child’s imagination and tenacity. within minutes of taking this photo, their parents came into the room and frustratingly told them to stop running. i’m not a parent, and i don’t know what it’s like to reign in a child day after day, but i couldn’t help but think that dad should be a little less stifling.

All grown ups were children once… but only a few of them remember it.
~ The Little Prince

of all the photos in this list, this is my favorite. i’ve noticed that i am continually drawn to children, especially when they’re in their own world or playing. there’s something in that reality that i wish i could reach again. adults call children “carefree,” but i don’t think that’s true. all the kids i know think and feel deeply about things. they take their lives seriously. but they can get lost in these moments of pure experience, and i envy that. i love this photo’s composition, the grain, the subtle contrasts and soft greys. i love that the photo isn’t, and therefore i’m not, imposing on their life in that moment. the viewer is boundaried by the plants as i am boundaried from the magic of childhood. but i can look and try to remember. this photo was shot on my minolta xg-m on ilford hp5. perfect combo.

this is an early photo i took with my fujifilm x-t3 not long after i got it. i was (and am) still learning a lot about photography, and this photo is the result of intention and luck. the lighting outside was really nice and soft. the primroses were exploding. the pink on green combo was yummy. and i was able to pay attention long enough to find the perfect bloom to photograph.

this photo was also taken in my fujifilm’s early career. there are things i wish were better about the photo. the highlights are blown a little too much, even considering the sun was setting behind this man. i wish i would have slowed my shutter down to show that we were moving, or even waited until we were all moving faster. but i adore the fact that he looked over at me right as i hit the shutter button. that’s an alignment you can’t always plan for. i need to improve my editing skills because i could take the highlights down in this, but in doing so i was losing some definition. it’s still one of my favorites because, i mean, look at him. i need those vibes for the rest of 2026.

Subscribe now

buy me a roll of film!

buy a print

I have been writing poetry since I was a child. I can’t remember when I wrote my first poem, but it has long been a way of bringing out of myself the unsaid, the unnamed, and giving it existence in the form of words. I also took up a photography practice about two years ago.

wheatgerm is a place for me to share my craft in a way that’s not driven by algorithms, and hopefully resists the homogenizing power of them. I admit that Substack is also social media, and is also algorithmically processed, but it seems a healthier version of what’s out there.

Subscribe now

What will you find here?

My goal is to post a collection of my favorite photos at the end of the month from everything I shot that month. That might be one. It might be more, but never more than twelve. Speaking of photos, I support my habits of writing and photography by selling prints. Take a look here and see if there’s anything you’d like hanging on your wall. It would be greatly appreciated.

Poetry will be different, and without schedule. Just what and when I want to share. I started with a photo, I will end with a poem. Thanks for being here.

Winds

The ground shifts under me
and my head spins with 
all that is changing. 
Dreams come and they go,
and dreams fade in the sighs of waking.

Someone told me the way
would open and I, 
damn fool that I am, 
believed this.
But doors only open when pushed. 

Now I'm here pushing–
God I'm pushing–
against this pull into oblivion,
threatening me with its peaceful
sleep. 

The answer my friend 
is blowing in the wind...

Well, I come from a windy city
on the border of windy plains, 
and last night the wind
broke a tree in half. 

Subscribe now

Share