Rhys Owens published his first book, entitled DUST, in 2006 which was to be his farewell to Romantic poetry, as well as the Postmodern and Modern eras. His first 'phase' of work completed, the travels began, accompanied by nonstop epiphanies, premonitions, and subtle hallucinations. He saw dreams and nightmares come true, compiling images in his poetic opus, THE DOPPELGANGER; and the great quest of consummating the soul, which he describes in vivid detail in his unpublished master work JOURNEY TO SOMEWHERE OTHER THAN THE NIGHT
As 'the slacker poet', 'the king of all losers', 'the mushroom man', Rhys Owens made a name for himself as a reclusive adventurer, blazing between the many dimensions of this world, embarking on tragi-comic flights of fancy from the ghoul haunted forests of rural Virginia to the futuristic badlands of Australia.
Relatively unknown in this lifetime, one can only surmise that he'll be discovered in the next. Or the one after that. Isolated from all artists and cultural custodians of his century by demeanor, and of other centuries for other reasons, he stands alone as a grand failure of 21st Century letters. Only time will tell if his name will be exploited and dragged through the toilets of the collegian world, as have the greater and lesser talents throughout history. For now, his work will haunt the solitary rooms and deserted streets of a crumbling America, for all the adventurers and poets of the future to conjure on their dark nights and lonely walks through confusion and desperation.
Freezing, alone, a girl within herself tends the ground;
Knowing the water does nothing but freeze, till around
The turn of the year, winter gives way to spring again,
Where cold, distant ice sees to mending; flowers begin
...
when i used to have to send letters to the editor
from charleville-mezieres,
i used to use stamps with pictures of Louis Pasteur on them.
in the united states, i've been sending out manuscripts,
...
i lost my wallet
a few weeks ago,
while i was sitting on the rainwashed
beach, after my truest love
...
The white man is born in fire,
That's why he thinks of Heaven.
God is a cold kind of love
...