The district of thane is my home now.. after retiring my dad decided to settle there and the greenery the creek the buzz feels home even though its too chaotic for my taste. all i do when there is sit at home with parents and enjoy.
Again!? District doesn’t bring much to mind at all. I think that it will not generate much for me to write so I will write about other things, such as …. too late.
Living in DC is not always fun. Everyone is so obsessed with politics; you can’t escape it in any avenue. Go out to dinner, hear political talk. On the roads, see political stickers. Meet somebody new, first thing they’ll ask is where you work (which in DC is a very political topic). I can’t wait to get out of here. Oh, also my team is right and yours is wrong; someday I’ll move to a place where my politics win. But I can’t wait to escape politics.
segment, separate
white, black, Hispanic
jew, Christian, muslim
divide us all
put us each in our own district
would we then be color-blind
would we hate less?
would we get along
we know the answer
of course not
for race and belief are not the enemy
the enemy is our soul
that seeks only the best for itself
so quickly we will betray
so easily we steal
so deftly we lie
if only it could be so easy erase our problems
but the failure comes from “I”
This district of thought is filled with bizarre statements of selfishness and worry.
Why can you not be free to love your neighbor, help those in need and care for the greater good?
Can you not see that we are all one?
Or is your district so separate from mine?
The fence at the edge of our district was a messy tangle of barbed wire, but that hardly dissuaded anyone from leaving. Just as the animals had burrowed hundreds of tunnels through the orange dirt along the district’s perimeter, we slipped through the wires like ferrets to wander the empty plains beyond.
This part of town was known for its boisterous voice, its friendly nature. The whole area so polished and shiny other states and countries knew of it.
Yet connecting it the outside world, dark alleys stagger into the night, starving. People leaning on brick walls, the underbelly, The Underground. It is colder, a place of taking in everything and taking action and taking. A place of the greed of hunger. Hands reaching out for what could possibly fill them. An apple, a dollar, some skin. Some hands reach into the glittering parts of town, fingers shaking from want. They reach for smiles to make them their own, only to darken them with a touch. A stain on art, crawling in from shadow to shadow. ‘Acknowledge us,’ their dragging feet say in the night. Together the alleys are larger than the polished part of town. They remained invisible to most. Cities too busy ignoring and accepting ignorance about their own organic, seething parts. If seen they are given a pat on the back and told they are smaller than uptown. They are told they are weaker. They are told they have less influence on The City itself; The Unseen reach behind every surface. Creating shadows on the impeccable flat canvas. Covering 1-10 on the paint-by-number streets. Acknowledge us. Hands stealing paper-cut-out grins. Hands bruising juicy peach skin. Crushing the man-made, the effort to be more without being able to be. I’m here, in pen, not pencil. A stain. A depth. A hunger. A drive. A connection. Acknowledge.
I think here in my school district we try a little harder. I guess that’s how a lot of people probably feel. But were young, and scrappy. We try so damn hard and nobody from beyond our little town seems to notice. Until
the district was clean but dirty. It was the worst part of the town and the best one. I didn’t want to be there, but didn’t I? i was one of the chosen ones
“Hop on car number twenty five”, Jolene said, “I’m in the Douglas Tower Apartments, half mile west of the final stop. ”
With many apologies and swift foot work, Ricky weaved through crowds of people, fresh out of the cubicles for the day. He glanced over the directory one more time before he boarded the car. One mistake and he would end up on the other end of the district. All he’d have then is a wasted evening and see that precious ten grand go down the tubes.
Ricky looked forward to this serve. He doesn’t get rich clientele often. He made a mental note to tell Jolene to be clearer with directions to her building when he arrived. He could understand why she was vague with instructions. His first time clients usually were paranoid. He’s been feeling the heat the past few days, but found this worth the risk.
Once Ricky boarded the car he loosened his shoulders. He was lucky to find an empty window seat and plopped down. Before he could truly get comfortable, Ricky flung his bag onto his lap, digging around for sweet relief from the long ride. Nodding to himself and smiling, he slid a pair of headphones on and slumped against the window.
one district is full of trash
one district is full of rash
one district is full of you
one district is full of moo
one district has no cats
one district all wears hats
if a cat in a hat that goes mo with a rash carries trash?
that is you
the end of “The District”
I’ve lived my whole life in this district. Restricted from the rest of the world, merely categorized by my parents’ desires and occupations and birth places and fates — everyone’s fate starts off at the midpoint of someone else’s.
Who decided it was a good idea to build a city on swamp land?
She hitcher her leather bag higher on her shoulder (another bad decision: she should have invested in a backpack) and sidestepped a group of tourists on the Mall. July was a horrible time to live in Washington. Between the humidity, the heat, and the overwhelming number of tourists in town for Independence Day, she should have taken a vacation.
When she stepped inside the museum, the wave of cool air was almost as reviving as salvation itself.
As I was walking in the forest trying to get away from some mountain lions, I came across a district. it was the kings district. I knew no one was aloud enter but that didn’t stop me. as I venter further into the kings forest, I saw a man how looked like a pirate. I quickly hid behind a tree as he pasted. he was followed by some guards and hounds. they ran right past me and ran right passed me.
Open space that’s stuffed into a tiny one. Closed minded in my mind thoughts that I would like to share but they are captured into this tiny space. There is so much openness that could be had in the world but it is constricted to this distinct location and there is no beyond.
whenever thy finds the jurdisdiction in which
money and mind and esteem
no longer matter
when resided in a district of realism
a place where a bus stop is not the color of anger
the humble district has allowed entry.
around this town frowns last less time
than a begging hand’s extension
relentless
surreal realism
is bendless,
say hello to the true you,
and goodbye to that old fool,
everyday is a new day, constant battle,
with the the personal self-school.
graduation isnt superflous, if the school of no socks,
and hard rocks, isnt chosen;
whereas, 8 dollars an hour, may seem
sultry and sour,
but they, instill, a sense, of will power!
the district is eliciit,
if im bent, or worn, then ill pull out my gym clothes
stretch, find the stress, and twist it
into the past,
I am my very own iconoclast,
started from silicion grounds,
now im up and abound,
vip tunnels in skyscrapers,
known now as entrepreneurial hound.
Long beach is my district.
The schools were separated into certain districts. Students would go to these different schools to try and get an education to preform different jobs when they are older.
The Fifth District of Homea was the filthiest region to live in. If the slums of the others were to be considered garbage cans, then the Fifth District was a garbage land fill. Despite this, Iynh still considered it home.
The city blocks bunched together in a cloister that made the citizens monastics in regards to opportunity; it was as though there were nothing outside the tenement buildings that lined this section of the city.
District? What kind of word is that except to separate things, ideas, people? Don’t we have enough of that already? We put people in places, you belong there so that we can belong here. I suppose its always been that way.
She looked around and smiled at the webs of street, walking briskly into the sunlight. She felt so at home today, so alive. This wasn’t always the case. But she was going to take it as it came. She inhaled the smell of the city, the mix of sour and cement filling her nose.
“This area is a bit…how do you say…keizaiteki.” There it is, “~teki,” to soften the blow it delivers to the reality of their situation. I know the other names: mikaiho, hisabets, tokshu, hinin, each a prefix to simple, common word that better describes the heart and soul of this place: buraku. “To be honest they don’t look much different than the other villages.” There’s a unique character to the homes out here – tin lazily covering the thatch rooftops, putting on a facade of modernity. Heh, a more literal tatemae. “It’s not something you look at, to see. I think where you live you might see a trailer park, or a country home, and think, ‘oh, these people are defenitely poor.’ Here, though, it’s history. People just know. Like that one,” he points to a sign that reads “Chikusa,” the characters for thousand and grass. “It’s a pretty name, right? A thousand blades of grass, sounds like a country home? It’s a homonym for a slur.”
He’s right. Common folk used to work the simple, dirty jobs – butchers, tanners, morticians – but now, they’re mostly factory workers and farmers. The farmers have it worst – they inherited no land, or are bought out by large companies like Phaiten who take a considerable percentage of their already small profit. What’s worse, they’re self-taught. Even if the country bleeds for agricultural jobs, they won’t find a way to make its most willing, who are also its most needy, till those fields. Cleanliness is close to godliness here: in the most traditional areas, women aren’t allowed on shrine grounds while menstruating. There are historical instances of the royal palace being locked down for days because a merchant with a dying cow drunkenly strutted down shijo in the night.
He’s right, though, where we’re from, it’s more visually identifiable. My home is hardly over 100 years old, from its cities founding, how can that compete with discrimination planted and cultivated for 500 years? We arrive at the school, and my principal walks through the door in a hurry. We are greeted at the genkan by our weasely little clerk, hysteric, because we are 5 minutes late, making the principal 5 minutes early for his meeting. They back into the school without changing their shoes. I change mine, I have to, or else someone will surely notice with their sixth sense for uncleanliness that I’m tracking dirt through the halls.
For me, though, it’s not history, or even my shoes, that sell me out.
“Pardon,” the artist says as he scrambles to help a woman pick up a box of books he’s accidentally knocked out of her arms when the two collided coming around the corner of some old building he can’t even locate on the map. He sets his traveling easel down with his bags and quickly gathers a handful of the dozen or so books off the cobblestones.
“Which arts district are you from?” She asks in a tantalizing dialect. There is a keen look in her eye and he stumbles for a second with his words.
“I’m foreigner, Madame.” The artist smiles shyly caught off guard by her sleekness, her boldness. He takes a cue and ventures,”By any chance are you a book dealer or a publisher? ”
The damp air, the full moon, and the street lamps makes her skin radiant, like glimmering pearls under pristine waters. “No, Monsieur, I’m a writer who likes to devour the works of others. You need to read in order to write as they say.”
Then the fangs grow past her bottom lip, she leans in as he recoils, “Perhaps little lamb you would like to reside in our hallowed place forever?”
The school district had been closed for five years – every single school shut down. Students were bused to the adjacent city to complete their education, sitting in desks older than their grandparents, still using chalkboards to write out equations and spelling lists. I visited the high school – Smith High School, as it was blandly named – and was reminded of the years preceding the Civil War.
The district of thane is my home now.. after retiring my dad decided to settle there and the greenery the creek the buzz feels home even though its too chaotic for my taste. all i do when there is sit at home with parents and enjoy.
Again!? District doesn’t bring much to mind at all. I think that it will not generate much for me to write so I will write about other things, such as …. too late.
District counselor. District of Columbia. Districts basketball game.
My district is Kannur its a small part of Kerala
Living in DC is not always fun. Everyone is so obsessed with politics; you can’t escape it in any avenue. Go out to dinner, hear political talk. On the roads, see political stickers. Meet somebody new, first thing they’ll ask is where you work (which in DC is a very political topic). I can’t wait to get out of here. Oh, also my team is right and yours is wrong; someday I’ll move to a place where my politics win. But I can’t wait to escape politics.
segment, separate
white, black, Hispanic
jew, Christian, muslim
divide us all
put us each in our own district
would we then be color-blind
would we hate less?
would we get along
we know the answer
of course not
for race and belief are not the enemy
the enemy is our soul
that seeks only the best for itself
so quickly we will betray
so easily we steal
so deftly we lie
if only it could be so easy erase our problems
but the failure comes from “I”
This district of thought is filled with bizarre statements of selfishness and worry.
Why can you not be free to love your neighbor, help those in need and care for the greater good?
Can you not see that we are all one?
Or is your district so separate from mine?
The fence at the edge of our district was a messy tangle of barbed wire, but that hardly dissuaded anyone from leaving. Just as the animals had burrowed hundreds of tunnels through the orange dirt along the district’s perimeter, we slipped through the wires like ferrets to wander the empty plains beyond.
district a place to go, a location to remember, a way to divide a town
The district is dirty, the district is a crumple, the district is a place where dreams come to die
This part of town was known for its boisterous voice, its friendly nature. The whole area so polished and shiny other states and countries knew of it.
Yet connecting it the outside world, dark alleys stagger into the night, starving. People leaning on brick walls, the underbelly, The Underground. It is colder, a place of taking in everything and taking action and taking. A place of the greed of hunger. Hands reaching out for what could possibly fill them. An apple, a dollar, some skin. Some hands reach into the glittering parts of town, fingers shaking from want. They reach for smiles to make them their own, only to darken them with a touch. A stain on art, crawling in from shadow to shadow. ‘Acknowledge us,’ their dragging feet say in the night. Together the alleys are larger than the polished part of town. They remained invisible to most. Cities too busy ignoring and accepting ignorance about their own organic, seething parts. If seen they are given a pat on the back and told they are smaller than uptown. They are told they are weaker. They are told they have less influence on The City itself; The Unseen reach behind every surface. Creating shadows on the impeccable flat canvas. Covering 1-10 on the paint-by-number streets. Acknowledge us. Hands stealing paper-cut-out grins. Hands bruising juicy peach skin. Crushing the man-made, the effort to be more without being able to be. I’m here, in pen, not pencil. A stain. A depth. A hunger. A drive. A connection. Acknowledge.
I think here in my school district we try a little harder. I guess that’s how a lot of people probably feel. But were young, and scrappy. We try so damn hard and nobody from beyond our little town seems to notice. Until
the district was clean but dirty. It was the worst part of the town and the best one. I didn’t want to be there, but didn’t I? i was one of the chosen ones
“Hop on car number twenty five”, Jolene said, “I’m in the Douglas Tower Apartments, half mile west of the final stop. ”
With many apologies and swift foot work, Ricky weaved through crowds of people, fresh out of the cubicles for the day. He glanced over the directory one more time before he boarded the car. One mistake and he would end up on the other end of the district. All he’d have then is a wasted evening and see that precious ten grand go down the tubes.
Ricky looked forward to this serve. He doesn’t get rich clientele often. He made a mental note to tell Jolene to be clearer with directions to her building when he arrived. He could understand why she was vague with instructions. His first time clients usually were paranoid. He’s been feeling the heat the past few days, but found this worth the risk.
Once Ricky boarded the car he loosened his shoulders. He was lucky to find an empty window seat and plopped down. Before he could truly get comfortable, Ricky flung his bag onto his lap, digging around for sweet relief from the long ride. Nodding to himself and smiling, he slid a pair of headphones on and slumped against the window.
There was nothing really relevant around our district when I was growing up. It was really boring.
one district is full of trash
one district is full of rash
one district is full of you
one district is full of moo
one district has no cats
one district all wears hats
if a cat in a hat that goes mo with a rash carries trash?
that is you
the end of “The District”
everyone has there own districs mine is didtrict of sararasota and it ias a big district
I’ve lived my whole life in this district. Restricted from the rest of the world, merely categorized by my parents’ desires and occupations and birth places and fates — everyone’s fate starts off at the midpoint of someone else’s.
Who decided it was a good idea to build a city on swamp land?
She hitcher her leather bag higher on her shoulder (another bad decision: she should have invested in a backpack) and sidestepped a group of tourists on the Mall. July was a horrible time to live in Washington. Between the humidity, the heat, and the overwhelming number of tourists in town for Independence Day, she should have taken a vacation.
When she stepped inside the museum, the wave of cool air was almost as reviving as salvation itself.
As I was walking in the forest trying to get away from some mountain lions, I came across a district. it was the kings district. I knew no one was aloud enter but that didn’t stop me. as I venter further into the kings forest, I saw a man how looked like a pirate. I quickly hid behind a tree as he pasted. he was followed by some guards and hounds. they ran right past me and ran right passed me.
a school is a district because its in a division territory, Texas is a district because its in a country
Open space that’s stuffed into a tiny one. Closed minded in my mind thoughts that I would like to share but they are captured into this tiny space. There is so much openness that could be had in the world but it is constricted to this distinct location and there is no beyond.
whenever thy finds the jurdisdiction in which
money and mind and esteem
no longer matter
when resided in a district of realism
a place where a bus stop is not the color of anger
the humble district has allowed entry.
around this town frowns last less time
than a begging hand’s extension
relentless
surreal realism
is bendless,
say hello to the true you,
and goodbye to that old fool,
everyday is a new day, constant battle,
with the the personal self-school.
graduation isnt superflous, if the school of no socks,
and hard rocks, isnt chosen;
whereas, 8 dollars an hour, may seem
sultry and sour,
but they, instill, a sense, of will power!
the district is eliciit,
if im bent, or worn, then ill pull out my gym clothes
stretch, find the stress, and twist it
into the past,
I am my very own iconoclast,
started from silicion grounds,
now im up and abound,
vip tunnels in skyscrapers,
known now as entrepreneurial hound.
Long beach is my district.
The schools were separated into certain districts. Students would go to these different schools to try and get an education to preform different jobs when they are older.
School
Pequea Valley
Students
Sports
Administration
The Fifth District of Homea was the filthiest region to live in. If the slums of the others were to be considered garbage cans, then the Fifth District was a garbage land fill. Despite this, Iynh still considered it home.
The city blocks bunched together in a cloister that made the citizens monastics in regards to opportunity; it was as though there were nothing outside the tenement buildings that lined this section of the city.
District? What kind of word is that except to separate things, ideas, people? Don’t we have enough of that already? We put people in places, you belong there so that we can belong here. I suppose its always been that way.
She looked around and smiled at the webs of street, walking briskly into the sunlight. She felt so at home today, so alive. This wasn’t always the case. But she was going to take it as it came. She inhaled the smell of the city, the mix of sour and cement filling her nose.
“This area is a bit…how do you say…keizaiteki.” There it is, “~teki,” to soften the blow it delivers to the reality of their situation. I know the other names: mikaiho, hisabets, tokshu, hinin, each a prefix to simple, common word that better describes the heart and soul of this place: buraku. “To be honest they don’t look much different than the other villages.” There’s a unique character to the homes out here – tin lazily covering the thatch rooftops, putting on a facade of modernity. Heh, a more literal tatemae. “It’s not something you look at, to see. I think where you live you might see a trailer park, or a country home, and think, ‘oh, these people are defenitely poor.’ Here, though, it’s history. People just know. Like that one,” he points to a sign that reads “Chikusa,” the characters for thousand and grass. “It’s a pretty name, right? A thousand blades of grass, sounds like a country home? It’s a homonym for a slur.”
He’s right. Common folk used to work the simple, dirty jobs – butchers, tanners, morticians – but now, they’re mostly factory workers and farmers. The farmers have it worst – they inherited no land, or are bought out by large companies like Phaiten who take a considerable percentage of their already small profit. What’s worse, they’re self-taught. Even if the country bleeds for agricultural jobs, they won’t find a way to make its most willing, who are also its most needy, till those fields. Cleanliness is close to godliness here: in the most traditional areas, women aren’t allowed on shrine grounds while menstruating. There are historical instances of the royal palace being locked down for days because a merchant with a dying cow drunkenly strutted down shijo in the night.
He’s right, though, where we’re from, it’s more visually identifiable. My home is hardly over 100 years old, from its cities founding, how can that compete with discrimination planted and cultivated for 500 years? We arrive at the school, and my principal walks through the door in a hurry. We are greeted at the genkan by our weasely little clerk, hysteric, because we are 5 minutes late, making the principal 5 minutes early for his meeting. They back into the school without changing their shoes. I change mine, I have to, or else someone will surely notice with their sixth sense for uncleanliness that I’m tracking dirt through the halls.
For me, though, it’s not history, or even my shoes, that sell me out.
“Pardon,” the artist says as he scrambles to help a woman pick up a box of books he’s accidentally knocked out of her arms when the two collided coming around the corner of some old building he can’t even locate on the map. He sets his traveling easel down with his bags and quickly gathers a handful of the dozen or so books off the cobblestones.
“Which arts district are you from?” She asks in a tantalizing dialect. There is a keen look in her eye and he stumbles for a second with his words.
“I’m foreigner, Madame.” The artist smiles shyly caught off guard by her sleekness, her boldness. He takes a cue and ventures,”By any chance are you a book dealer or a publisher? ”
The damp air, the full moon, and the street lamps makes her skin radiant, like glimmering pearls under pristine waters. “No, Monsieur, I’m a writer who likes to devour the works of others. You need to read in order to write as they say.”
Then the fangs grow past her bottom lip, she leans in as he recoils, “Perhaps little lamb you would like to reside in our hallowed place forever?”
Suddenly with one swift bite he has no choice.
The school district had been closed for five years – every single school shut down. Students were bused to the adjacent city to complete their education, sitting in desks older than their grandparents, still using chalkboards to write out equations and spelling lists. I visited the high school – Smith High School, as it was blandly named – and was reminded of the years preceding the Civil War.