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Slogging through Brodsky's ( Dyad ) latest experimental effort is like mining pyrite: there's a glimmering vein here and there but one has to ask whether it's worth chipping through all that dull gray rock to get to it. Protagonist Stu Pott manages to get a job working with Dov Grey, captain of industry, husband of Gwenda, lover of Sylvie (aka Lola, Guinevere, Althaea) Redmount and, most importantly, manufacturer of ***. *** seem to be (depending on the passage and on the mood of the reader) archetypal widgets, phenotypes or, occasionally, art. Stu has numerous adventures--a vasectomy, a bad office party, a stint as a private detective, and eventually he becomes a suspect in the murder of Dov Grey. In between, however, Stu spends way too much time contemplating the nature of *** with the boys (Brodsky's women, like Kant's, seem beneath the sublime), as well as musing on micturation and flatulance (``For Stu the fart marked the end of an era''). If *** were half as long, readers might be carried along by the author's insights into corporate culture, noesis and New York (``the Guggenheim's current show, Bolshevik new wave costume design for Balanchine's all-American kaleidoscope ballets, is a must , according to According To magazine.'') But it's not. And readers won't. (May)