Dreamer • Fighter • Artist • Troubadour
They called him many things as the years stacked up: dreamer, troublemaker, poet of the streets, ghost-seer, fighter, troubadour of the unseen.
He grew up framed by Cincinnati's weathered brick and humming neighborhoods, the son of a musical family and a mother who taught with a ferocity reserved for the brave. From her he learned discipline and tenderness at the same time: that strength could be soft and that love could be an act of resistance.
As a child he lived in two worlds at once. Paint, charcoal, and daydreams — an artist before he could spell the word. He saw spirits. He saw ghosts. He levitated, or at least he remembers floating with a clarity that feels more truthful than most daily facts.
At sixteen, he and his best friend Joe formed Angels In Battle, a Christian hip hop group that embroidered gospel into grit. Those initials — AIB — are inked on his forearm as an emblem of loyalty and loss.
Joe's death at twenty-one cracked something open in him that never fully healed. He carried on, continuing to rap with his little brother Juice Lee and friends Matt and Mark, weaving faith and frustration into verses that moved like prayers.
At twelve he picked up weights and karate, a ritual that hardened his body while sharpening his discipline. By adolescence he had grown big, strong, and magnetic — a presence that pulled people in and, sometimes, pushed them away.
Boxing found him at fifteen, then found him again in Minnesota in his early twenties. In those gyms he became a methodical man of motion, a fighter who once flirted with the Olympic track.
Travel was both escape and education. He rode Greyhound buses like other people collect stamps — low, slow pilgrimages that let him watch the country pass with an open mind. He avoided planes until his thirties, preferring the granular intimacy of land travel.
He was robbed in Los Angeles twice. He was shot at during one of his wanderings. Each time, he emerged more cunning than broken: the losses reverberated, but his returns were always marked by a strange alchemy of gain — more understanding, more courage, more story.
Strength tempered with softness. Love as an act of resistance.
Expression as oxygen. Creation as the only honest response to chaos.
The body remembers what the mind forgets. Movement as meditation.
Names inked in flesh. Memory as devotion. Brotherhood eternal.
Ghosts and spirits. Floating memories. The unseen as real as breath.
Every scar a sentence. Every journey a chapter. Life as literature.
A life measured not in years but in transformation. Not in destinations but in the courage to keep moving. The legend continues, one verse, one round, one brushstroke at a time.
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