Supernova Connections

I am a supernova
      -of ideas-
much to my sister's consternation.
Nothing is too sacred, 
     no moment safe.
Rewriting the bible,
   rewriting the church,
Spreading 'Harveyism'
     (for lack of a better name)
         across the land.

"No problem!" I say happily, 
     bold, "I'll rewrite them, Cliff Notes versions."
She sounds so serious
     when she asks, almost fearful of the answer.
"Oh yeah, how's that go?"
Grinning, I reply, "Be a good person.
Don't hurt others. Be happy and shit.
     If they aren't hurting anyone,
leave 'em alone. Everyone
     deserves the right to be fuckin' happy."
"Jesus never sounded quite so... Philly."
     came her droll reply.

"Yeah well, if He'd been more direct
     maybe people wouldn't mess it up
quite so much."
 I turn serious, for once, 
   -blink and you'll miss it-
"It makes me so sad
   that people miss the Truth."

The table I sit at is wooden,
     carpenter's son,
strange connections. Harrison Ford.
Red hair, sisters, strange connections,
     phone lines no longer necessary
digital signal bouncing from relay to relay
searching for connections.

"And what is that?" her voice calls
me back before I forget my proselytizing. 
     "If God is Love, then maybe
     a little less hate, would get us what we want-" I frowned, not
quite sure what I meant.
     "I mean Love, the Truth is Love." I nod to myself, tracing
fingers across wooden table.