Analysis of Young Black Americans

I read “An American Sunrise” by Joy Harjo—it gave life to this poem.

We have lived the anthology right here in America. We
have slept in the mansard, reading landmarks, headed
to the graffiti yard. We live absent of our souls, or located, compelled, nay, without another recourse, sipping firewater. Sweet sounds, jazz, tribal Native longings, aches, ashes speaking about change, familiarity in suffering, pat on wrists, asked to go home; tarsier eyes filled with roses, blood dyed carpets, slain sheep. Morning dewdrops, upon dehydrated faces, mouthing for saliva. We have
lived sameness, treating each other with alienation, pain has become personal, entitlements, carrying firebricks. The jukebox is silent, the pool-stick carries violence, liquor makes most persons mean. Healing is with careful axes hacking away at pillars, if never to abort sunrise freedom.