It was paradise

From Beachmont Hill to the Point of Pines,
Revere Beach was once a mess hall
for the hungry heart

Every weekend, the Narrow Gauge would carry in
sun-starved backs by the hundreds
mouths for the pizza joints and barrooms
jaws to be gaped at the 100-foot shadow of the Cyclone
ripping through the air above

What a marvel that was –
50 miles per hour in the fall, you’d swallow your tongue
if you didn’t bite through it first

If you weren’t feeling so brave,
you could catch a thrill on Dodgems or Derby Racer
or win something plush for a nickel at Bluebeard’s Palace
or watch the as horses dove into the ocean

For dinner, Mr. Kelly made the roast beef
Mrs. Ahern made the custard
and the streets were loud with Gavioli organs
spillin’ out of the Hippodrome
late into the night.

It was the Bay State’s own Coney Island
The Mystic City by the Sea
America’s first public beach
it was never meant to be owned
only shared
Like gospel
Like blame

What remains of Revere Beach
is a washed out strip of abandoned motels
rebuilt pavilions
and a dried-out plot of crab grass
where a giant once stood

To be here
to feel the crunch of a quahog shell under your boot
to watch a terrier gallop
open-mouthed through the foam
it does not take much to understand
why dance marathons at Crescent Gardens
and rollerskate kicks at Ocean Pier were once enough
to call the slickers right outta their city
But the ocean takes
probably more than it gives

In the ‘70s, it took the pier and gave back a blizzard
splintering all that was built
until it collapsed into a memory
The prospectors left
when the dogs moved into Wonderland

These shores were once a natural habitat for hope
but failure is an invasive species
Its niche is not to destroy
but to dishearten
to smear the blueprints of hope with its venom
and the people here cannot milk their fangs
of the fear

Instead of carousels, children here are bred
with the idea that hope is a pet for the past
its gospel has already been written,
and they’re raised in 100-foot shadows
and taught to never aspire to build
anything bigger than 16 ounces

Now, the organs are silent
replaced by a constant shiver that hangs in the air
one that reaches its pitch as eyes peer
out of the dark windows of the bar

This beach’s bloodline is brackish with whiskey
its tongue a sponge for the spirit
The voices of this town hush when strangers come near
and its ears are alive with suspicion

These people are reluctant for saviors
and even more reluctant to be saved
Ever since their trophy case got busted
the folks down at Revere Beach have learned
not let their hopes rest on the backs
that the Narrow Gauge brings.

They’re resigned to their hungover nostalgia
convinced that hope does not breathe
in words like “restoration,” “investment,”
or “tomorrow”
unable to live forward inside of something
that died far back there
They know the ocean leaves
and when it does, it leaves salt

A memory is a dangerous thing
It holds no obligation to past
or to what remains
It is even more dangerous when shared
Like gospel
Like blame