Past is proving prologue for the pensive protean poet. Pundits, pollsters, and publishing panjandrums are positing plaudits on the polite and polymorphous parabalist and his prepossessing and panacean fourth album, the post-modern/pre-apocalyptic “Sweet Burden of Youth.” Coady's palpable purple prose packs more purely pyrotechnic punches than a painting by Picasso, Pissarro or Pollock. And his penetratingly poignant passages remind people of Pasternak, Pirandello, Poe and Proust.The perennial pursuer of pleasure is on the propitious but precipitous precipice of Parnassus. Perhaps as puissant and perplexing as the Pentateuch or Newton's Principia, “Sweet Burden Of Youth” positively puts perspicacious Coady in the pantheon of pop culture pioneers. Predictably, the publicly private pied piper of prodigious purview has postulated pithily produced paeans par excellence.Never provincial or pusillanimous, pathologically precise Coady’s peculiar polysyllabic pairings in powerful pastiches pique the paranoid purveyors of political propaganda, priests with prurient predilections, pashas in porcelain palaces, and persons passing the peace-pipe in Poughkeepsie. Pagans, puritans, potentates, and plebeians alike are calling “Sweet Burden of Youth” the proverbial pebble in a pond. There’s plenty more to this portentous picture than appears to even the most precocious patrons.