Poets like Ron Padgett and Ted Berrigan, and writers like William Burroughs had a collaborative hand in Veitch's plotless effusion starring one Luis Armed (as in ""ARMED BROTHERS ARRESTED IN CAPITAL"") and featuring brother Robert and wife Rosa. Whatever came into these writers' heads--and we mean whatever--found its way onto the page. Here's a taste: ""Your hair was soft and ran NBC Television Productions Ltd. It looking past you down a side street, black bird nose. My sweet little Mojave to admit it. You sure had a knack. Was no good for it really."" The main virtue of this kind of Dadaist dippity-do is inertia: how long can it keep on going on a straight line unimpeded by anything resembling real intelligence? How long? Here it seems like forever.