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Monday, June 27, 2016


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Tuesday, June 14, 2016

Stranded near the Safe Zone

Joe farmer was one of the many Homosexuals in my dorm. He, like a lot of gay men, took an interest in me.  Laughing it off, I developed a report with him, even hung out a couple of times when we were released. He was another crack addict. When he worked at a gas station that they trusted him with closing, he stole fifteen hundred dollars from the deposit bag for his habit, eventually fleeing to another state. He said all the right things and sounded sincere in his rehabilitation. After going back to the shelter to find that my belongings had been given or thrown away, and that I was not welcome to stay there, I had no place to go but the Safe Zone. I asked if I could entrust him with some writings that I had accumulated while serving the one year long sentence for the solicitation to sell cocaine charge- whatever that means.
Joe Farmer had an apartment that he was sharing with a family he became acquainted with. It seemed like I could count on him to keep my papers safe for the time being, so I left them with him, along with my food stamp card to let him get a few things he needed. He ended up getting thrown out for drugs a short time afterwards, taking my card and causing for my papers to be thrown out with the trash.
The time of day became late in my worry, and I found myself the farthest I could be from the Safe Zone. You have to check in by a certain time and the gate closes a little while after that, putting me on the streets for the night once again. Left to wander, I headed for Duval Street to find an opportunity.
What I found were these people who were palm weavers. They made hats, baskets and bowls. They fashioned roses and crucifixes also. All while sitting at the foot of the carnival style buildings that lined the street and sidewalks. It was a routine sight in the shopping and drinking streets, which was pretty much all of them.
The city has street vendor permits, of a certain number, that people can purchase for things particular to their “trade”. My questions began, asking each one of them if they needed help with anything, finally finding a couple guys who said I could help them sell their goods- roses made from Palm fronds. Soon, I discovered that this was a big joke because they would sell a couple roses and just go to the store for beers with what money they received. Then they would leave me to watch their spot and handle sales, barking at tourists as they walked by- same as the Carnival or County Fair.
Feeling and looking like a clown, I tried to play the part. It became obvious that these guys were addicts when they came back, talking strangely about where they stuck “the pipe” in the bushes and asking me if I “smoked”. The night proceeded while they squandered the money as it came in, spending it on drinking and drugs. I had accumulated only eight dollars because for every item I could sell they gave me a dollar bill.
It was turning into a far desperate situation than I could have imagined myself being a part of... I lost hope and turned to trying my hand at prostitution when three old ladies came along. What made it easy to think of was that I had been drinking and became hypnotized by the strong sexual overtone of the adult environment, like the festival that they call Fantasy Fest. The three of them were here on vacation though, and had just got off of a cruise ship to stay for a while and fly back home. One in particular was perky and upbeat, looking around sixty-five year old. Though a difficult decision to make, I put the bait out there and began flirting to let them know it could be had. All I could think was it could be worth a couple hundred bucks, and how I could be gone in the next day or two- finally escaping from the Keys. Things developed between us and it was a go, they were interested. Now all I had to do was stay drunk enough to actually go through with it. OH GOD! What have I done? Bring on the beer quick, before I change my mind!
Now, it’s been over a year since I arrived in the Keys. Fantasy Fest is in full swing and the crowd is freaking crazy. Everyone is doing private things in Public places. Many are naked but for body paint that looks like clothing. There are people having sex in many places out in the open. There are people everywhere drinking alcohol and smoking dope. There are people who have brought their children.
Amazed at what I am witnessing, I fight my way through the crowd to find a place to clean up. My eyes meet with the eyes with a man who has a jar in his hand. He quickly waves me closer and dumps some marijuana in my hand from the jar, telling me to enjoy it. The smell of blueberries perfumes the air from it. This pleases me because I needed to be intoxicated for what I was about to do, bumming a rolling paper along the way.
The little old ladies are meeting me at The Bull and Whistle Bar in a short while. The Garden of Eden is upstairs- a clothing optional place. When I get to the bar, I notice that the side entrance is dimly lit with a lot of shadows between it and the store next door. The bar bathroom made it easy to roll the joint and get cleaned up in because everyone was too interested in what was going on around them to take time to use it until they had to. Exiting the bathroom, I went to the shadows to smoke my weed.
As I finished smoking and pitched the roach, a cop car stopped at a gob of people about forty yards away. The officer got out of the car and looked around. He was looking for something, turning his head my way as I exhaled the last puff of smoke I held in my lungs. Then I turned to go back into The Bull and Whistle but he yelled for me to come his way. In the end he arrested me for possession of Marijuana, saying that he saw me blow out marijuana smoke from where he stood, and that he could smell it in the air. I had to laugh, like I was the one person who had smoked weed that night and he was out trying to sniff me out. There are sixty thousand people in Key West during this festival, very many smoking pot but I am the one he comes looking for.
Well, luckily for him, he had a roach he kept in his pocket for just such an occasion- evidence for whomever they want to take in. Moments later I found myself right back in the very same jail cell for the third time. It was just like everyone else that I saw get out and come right back within days. Catch and release, catch and release, catch… big money. It was purely madness.
Even my P.D. laughed when I explained the situation of the charge but it didn’t change the fact that I would be sitting in jail for another length of time. By now I am emotionally numb. Life has pretty much ended for me. I was happy if I woke up the next morning but for what, I don’t really know. Prosecuted on another charge got me forty-five more days, much to my dismay. But what I got out of that was more information.
Turns out that the girl that robbed me was busted in Marathon at a motel within a half day of the incident. The cops had kicked the door in on the motel, finding her and a drug dealer with guns and drugs, landing her a prison sentence. My bunkmate, Moses Torres, was at the location that night when I was robbed and arrested. He was smoking cocaine. He told me how he was there, saw my things in the mud, and was also arrested that night.  
My spades partner, Oneilio Garcia, was in for cocaine as well. He was actually a friend of Andy’s- more or less, supplying him with his cocaine. Oneilio explained how he had routinely delivered whores and rocks to Andy. It all became quite clear that I was set up from the beginning as I had suspected but now I had proof and witnesses.
Andy had planned on working at getting Julie to bend his way, painting me in a bad light, in order to get his equipment back, and suckering Julie out of all the money he could get, while knowing she was in control of her mother’s estate. That is, if she wasn’t conspiring with him all along. Knowing that didn’t do a whole lot for my situation except to reaffirm my awareness related to what my drinking had done in conjunction with my needs, like the need to be wanted or be part of something.
It was overwhelming, my wanting to file charges against him but I was not with any way to do it, so I thought about it all the time, remembering how Andy’s mother had told Julie about Andy doing a year or so in Florida Prison for being involved with a situation where they cut a guys stomach open to get the Heroine out that he was trafficking. It was odd that she would tell Julie this. Maybe she was involved in the scam too. Was that why she bought Andy the Jolly Roger flag for the boat? The whole thing was making me crazy.
Once again, I was released from jail. It was around noon when I left. It is easy to remember, only because I wanted to eat first and they wouldn’t serve me. My feet quickly took me to the area of activity where I thought I could find some assistance at. Lots of people had told me of a church that would give you a bus ticket to get home if you were stranded but this proved to be untrue.
At one point, during my hike, I met a group of hippie kids from upstate that were hanging out for whatever festival was going on at the time. They were down here selling pot and mushrooms, planning to leave in the morning. I was given a pair of shoes and some mushrooms. Seeing no point in not eating them, I did. We wandered around as a group and I felt safe. They took me to where they had been staying, which happened to be the rooftop of an abandoned building. There was a ladder to get up with that they pulled up onto the roof to conceal their whereabouts.
We hung out and talked about our travels that day and into the evening. We drank a little bit and smoked a lot. They invited me to leave with them in the morning and I gladly accepted. Then they gave me more mushrooms. As we wandered around, finding cell phones and money that had been lost by people, the drugs took affect and it became very difficult to manage. Feeling out of sorts, I had to get somewhere to rest out of sight. We headed back to their camp on the rooftop. Somewhere along the way I became separated from them.
When I was able to think, I found myself being walked back to the room where I had spent the majority of my time, in the Monroe County Jail. It had been all of fourteen hours.
When I woke up from my coma, I found myself in the same bunk I had been in for the past three arrests. Toilet paper was wrapped all around me like I had been mummified. Moses and the guys were laughing at me when I broke out of the bunk. It was funny to them, that I was wasted when I came back, and that I had been so adamant about leaving but repeatedly failed after they had told me it was near impossible to leave this place.
The officer’s had given me the charge sheet when I came in but I wasn’t able to read it. Now, I see that it says I have been charged with trespassing. When I finally speak with my Public Defender, I explain to him that I want a trial.
My chance to go back was gone, just like Gilligan’s Island. The kids, I would learn, had made their way up to Miami. They were staying in a hotel when they met up with a grave situation. The girl that was traveling with them, “Rose”, had been killed by the slitting of her throat, one of the guys was dead of an overdose of Heroine, and another guy was beaten badly and left for dead. Prison sentences were handed out but probably not for the people who did the killing. Had I not become separated from them, I would have been right there with them- dead or going to prison that time. That’s where the kid they found in the room went.
Was it that I was guided from that or was it just a coincidence? It sure wasn’t feeling like I was being guided.
People I had known on the streets were being found dead in many strange places. One man, who claimed to be a Veteran of the Marines named, Sonny, was found dead near mile marker fifteen. His throat was slashed. He was lying in the ditch on the side of the road when a motorist found him. Another man was killed while he slept on the beach by a hammer blow to the head. People were being killed by methadone overdoses. All of these people were homeless people. Of course, no charges were ever filed.
Within a week or two they sent a Psychiatrist in to evaluate me because no one goes to trial with a trespassing charge. He interviews me, tells me to “Keep fighting champ”, and then leaves. Several continuances later, they tell me that because I am unfit and incompetent, that there would be no trial. Forty-five days after they brought me in I am sent to court where they give me time served. I was released on Valentines Day.

Thursday, April 14, 2016

A Word For You, The Reader-

Hi everyone,
Thank you so very much for your interest in the novel, "Excerpts From A Broken Life". What you need to know is, first, it has been published, (in part), with a false title. The real title is something that was a secret but recently someone said that, "Monty Python", may have used the word that I was so proud of playing with. Now I am going to release the true title: "Escaping The Despondent Sea", or something like that. Whether or not the word, "escaping", will be used or not is still a debate.

"Escaping The Despondent Sea", is what you could call a "self help book". It is based on surviving, surviving with the damages of child abuse, molestation, addiction, as well as traumatic injuries such as a traumatic brain and spine injury and all of the suffering that does not have to be in the world.
It is a story about LOVE, and just how very important it truly is for us mammals.

My hopes, with my YouTube channel: , are that the productions will help me to gain attention for my work, work that I feel is very, very Important.

People like to throw the Bible in the faces of others- out of Judgement. It's a disgrace. I have read it- often, and I believe in it's Teachings. What I do not believe in is subscribing to any one of Man's Molestation's of it. I will Not be caught on a Sinking Ship. I do not need to attend church to be Seen and Accepted by Society. I do not need to be Told that there Is Something After this Life. And I do not need anyone to try to convince me- nor do I feel the need to convince others.

It say's, "Love not, the Earth". It does Not say, "Fuck it up as you please", or as you feel you are Entitled.

No matter what religion you are, or your faith- every "Bible" says only a few things.
It says, "Love one another". It says, "Do good works", and, "Do a good job".
It also says, "There Is More Life to Come, BUT- Only If You Earn It".

If you read my blog, "Divine Intervention/Spiritual Healing". I meant every word. I do not write fiction for the sake of fiction to you. I write what I know, and I write what I wonder.

 One thing I can say is this: If I say that, "A chicken dips snuff", then you better Look under his wing for the chew can.

Peace, Love, Care- Zachery Scott Polk

Sex Tips from Zach

Monday, January 18, 2016

Nose hairs and buried treaure

You know, I have this thing for nose hair. My own especially, mostly they are peculiar because of their size. I once had one that was three quarters of an inch long. This hair had a remarkable texture to it, very ribbed, spectaculated with patterns unimaginable. The ridges are for trapping dirt particles.
As for the buried treasure part of it, well...,it's a lot like nose hairs, you can pick em but what you don't know is their's a response to the debris you are taking into your lungs.  Your body responds to protect itself. 
Just as I consume myself with the pursuit of treasure, so I pursue my nose hairs, both ...., all the while are killing me.

Zachery S. Polk
Prospect Studios

Thursday, December 24, 2015

A gift for you this holiday

A memorable occasion is what we always want but the memorable part is usually something you didn't. Christmas is suppose to be a time to remember. Try to remember that while you try forgetting what happened on Thanksgiving.
My childhood memories are double what you would expect. First of all, we have always had to have two family gatherings- one for Everyone, and one for everyone who can get along with Roxanne, my aunt. Now I guess I am the person who no one can get along with. Or am I the person who should be having my own get-to-gethers.
When my grandmother passed away I was feared pretty well. They were not going to let me speak at her funeral but I stood up and took my chance when the preacher was about to let the podium go to someone who was, pre-approved, let's say. And I will bet anything that they never forget.
All of my life I was talked over, ignored, and smacked when I wasn't silent. Now that I have my own life, I have found my voice. And boy do they hate when I use it. I think they are the ones who motivated me to want to write. The best part of it is that what I write gets read before they have a chance to tell me to shut up. That's probably the part that they hate the most, being heard despite being held down with a heavy hand. Having your words read and comprehended is a pretty powerful thing to have. I hope all people can find a way to have their voices heard. Of course, that means that you are at least accepted enough to be heard.
This brings me to a very old story, "The Sword in the stone". This story is about having your voice and finding a way to give individuals their own.  It was the sword "in" the stone. Whom ever could extract it from the stone and give it to the people would be a powerful person. The sword represents your voice. Being able to wrought metal from rock is a skill handed down for thousands and thousands of years. The first person to get the product was highly respected and revered.
Each one of our voices counts for something- what ever it is you use it for. Now, let's use that voice to re-educate people with the understanding that RESPECT is NOT FEAR. You do not gain respect through others fearing you. You gain a battle that WILL come in the FUTURE. And when it comes for you, you will be defeated. Bet on that.
That is what I want to give you for New Years.
Happy Holidays from Zachery Polk @ Prospect Studio