ASININE poetry is anti-slam.
Asinine poets don't want to get that worked up.

The thing that makes a poem asinine for me is no tongue-in-cheek matter; it's a playing a persona when you're all alone and you don't have to worry about being seen as a fool, a usurper of someone else's shtick, caught making believe you are playing someone less or someone better than yourself — if you grasp/grok/dig/get or go into these things at all, then you know first-hand the asinine …

Mostly the asinine is a sign of the times… terrible leaders turn the milieu and its poets asinine… There's never been too much pride in our glands or enough cynicism burned off like feathers of youth itself… The asinine is skepticism side-stepping the beat of literary chops, the mind police, the political correctors who ride highways of thought and speech like regulators on the highway, like plagues through the annals of his and her stories hanging in the dying air like terrycloth towels in a middle-class bathroom. Going on simply because you can and therefore you must the one sigh that fits no one.

But part of what makes a poem asinine is that understanding which persona is being played, sure that while one may catch the persona just right, what that persona does is nothing but the asinine smoke and mirrors for the sake of showing and deluding nothing — what is, is what was captured and held to the light: absurd, silly, unnecessary and clearly calling for jeering and contempt dismal dismissal that does not go away — like a fart in a small, dimmed movie theater without apology or explanation — that perhaps the whole intent of poem is to disappear rather than remain reminding us of the smells of mere existence…a pretending of pretense, a non-apprehensive pretending that just won't shut up: in those ways saying just what the words are saying…nothing more…unless you're one of those who want poems to last eternal, to blast infernal banter, rant at the rave which was over / over a decade ago…and how silly and out of it we look when the cranked techno ceased, the pulsing, floating burst of phernome dispersed…and it's back to normal mode except for the young fillies in princess-dress sipping their concise ounces of water when the music stops…when the music's over…turn loose the kite…better run to the nearest group hug…Neither the left or the right get it right… Our government and the rest of the world solid asinine and poetry a simple celebration of obvious insight tacked up like a pin-up beside a frontal-lobe-less under-age soldier's bunk. The army blankets hardly co-educational. The world is asinine. Poems reveling in the world revel in the asinine.

Asinine prosody consists of hyperbole and as always alliteration anyway as ancient Arthur announced around the Round Table. Its meter loves to play cat and mouse with a host of Melanies and Melindas, for the affect or is it Effect. It's pushing the envelope and popping the bubble-wrap. Why not it's fun. It hurts no one…and if it do oh well, hell, excuse me for being so asinine.