Approximately 433 fragments which spotlight the antics of Cora Hull, black Greenwich Village stage actress, and her all-male harem of three. Cora needs variety, you see, and the scene keeps changing faster than a Bell & Howell slide projector with no hint from flash to flash of where we are headed. This is a piece of fiction like those various abstract paintings the author scans when he halts his early American mail coach in front of the Brooklyn Museum: it is about itself. It purports to be an extension--rather than a duplication--of reality. Exactly what happens to Cora is she gets blown up for some reason along with lover #3, Dale, whom the author admits he can't even get into focus, let alone characterize. Cops prowl around shaking white powder over the corpses, and the author goes out to get drunk with lover #1, Canada. Causality? Forget it. Either Major's got you hooked on his series of wildly improbable spot commercials for a sexy lady in a Fouke-dyed black fur with deep sidepockets, or not. A dot-to-dot, fill-in-the-blanks exercise in new fiction.