Page after blinding page of eye-crossing, mind-splitting inward excursions all sand- storming around the pilgrimage of an American Negro, hashish-happy, in a real or imagined Sahara. Ulys T. Hanson (the name is only one feeble example of the formidable mass of word plays) does the Sahara, on the bias, shakily narrating times, cults and personalities, like the juiced-up tape recorder he is fond of using. Humming drearily in the ""sort of red hot honeycomb "" are some barely discemible grotesques--a white American tourist couple who appear in many guises; assorted Arabs, including one constant nymph named Hammid, ""King of the Train,"" a fading Colonel, etc. At last Ulys reaches the pronouncement, while wafting keef smoke through the ""Open"" vent in a train lav, that ""(we are) still on this subway under the Great Desert called Life."" By this time the reader, as stoned as Ulys, will have decided that this particular subway is for sleeping.