Reading Mr. Coxhead is an irritating Parcheesi game featuring double blockades of time-arrest with the characters all bunched up and mixed up and races for home in all directions. As in many experimental novels which diddle with simultaneous events and conclusions, Mr. Coxhead's hero-anti-hero amorphously engulfs a multitude of sins and syntaxes. Professor Sullivan, agonizing within his itchy, sore skin, which one suspects is not quite his own but the author's, is sent all around a seedy town in British Honduras. A self-styled monk from Brooklyn who still gets Momma letters to ballast his vision of the Eye; an accommodating whore; an obese ""Turc""; assorted police--all are inventively manipulated back and forth in time, in roles, while Sullivan prepares--after testy discussions with his creator throughout--for the final apocalypse. The reality of Sullivan--always in question--is achieved in an orgy of excremental, supra-sexual frenzy. Presumably this is a satiric jab at the reality of literary conception. However, the joke is so interior, the literary comment so closely woven, that this dry run to Jerusalem is only for the special few who dig the strenuously avant garde.