Who would have thought that the yellow brick road was actually the LA Freeway, or that the city of the cosmic tomorrows looks like a junkyard of the 1960's--its artifacts, remaindered ideas, primal screams and plastic dildos strewn from Sunset Strip to Canoga Park, with Marshall McLuhan watching over the whole media-mad electronic scene, popping his circuits. Naturally LA/Oz is full of high-flying ""seekers"" (it rhymes with sneakers) stoned on dope or sex or visions. St. George's momentary glimmer of something approaching wit--""an army of lumpen-schleppers/slouching toward/sun""--is quickly extinguished and the poetry--or is it versifying?-setties down to a dull singsong, the beat supplied by fragments of rock 'n' roll you may remember from the juke boxes of yesteryear. Which is where this futuristic misfire is at.