Whether this can be considered good luck or bad, I have never seen god. I haven’t even caught a glimpse of a god’s heel, though I might have invoked their name very often. And so I have long considered neighbours and friends and comrade siblings and grass and trees and cereals and flowers as gods. Since poverty, sadness, hunger, and suffering are tied together as one bundle like a gift set of cookies, poetry is work that makes me think of Nadia and Mick and Francis and Puujee and, at times, to mourn them. It is my way of saying sorry to lips that cannot cry or speak.
---「Poet’s Note」중에서

When I groaned in the middle of the night, those who fetched a cloth to wet my mouth and lave my forehead, who smiled to hide their concern, were people poorer than me. When I was turned out of house and home, those who took me in and put me up were people with nothing much going on. When I was hungry, those who fed me were people who do not read thick books like the Buddhist code or the Bible or a writer’s complete works. Those who only deal in small change were superheroes to me. The earth and neighbours and friendship were my masters, their hands and feet were prayers and books and sky, food and poetry.