Rocks from the gravel road jab through my converse
As I do figure 8s through fields of black eyed Susan’s and purple flowers whose names I do not know
My eyes meet dark forests full of old trash
Beer cans and water bottles
Or they witness bees butterflies and dragonflies
It’s these moments that make me understand this music even more
Because in my mind it produces pictures of wheat fields and Pacific Northwestern forests
Montana mountains and maybe a ship just barely on the horizon
It’s these moments I exist outside of ideology and struggle
Outside of theory and praxis
Bushes instead of barricades
Grass brushing against my feet instead of city concrete
It reminds me of other songs
Of old Kentucky Anarchists
Of bread and roses
I am always so hesitant to leave these fields and forests
Because while I’m there I don’t have to say a thing to or for anyone
I don’t have anywhere to be except there
And no one to impress or disappoint
So I trade my Bella Ciaos for “3 a.m.”s
Freedom in theory for freedom in actuality
No matter how fleeting
And then
When I feel the time is right
I simply go back home

"Fall swooned
Left me drunk in a field
Dandelion wine for a year

And i packed up the dust
Of all that i owned
Handkerchief hung from a pole

I rolled out the day that the apples fell…"


- Gregory Alan Isakov